c'i<i-. 



^^■ 



•^,.:'' 












v^^ '-=*:. 






: ,^^ -':>, 



^>.<^ 

.^%. 



.^->'" 






,0 o^ 






V 












>^^\ 

•^ 
■f 






>'^ A'' 

,0 o^ 






.^^ 






.0^^ 









-.^' 






^^ -n*^ 





\e- 






0-- .\\ 






^ 


.^^^ 






^^ 



,\ 



V c '' 



o 0^ 






-^^ 



.^^ 



■^. c<^' 



-<• 






•^^ rvN 






v^' "^^ 



: .x^-^^ 



:0 



,-0- 



--■"■'.;/.<•:-:,:.'-%■ c?v:";^^"-'v- 



-I ^^ 



,0 o 






r;^'^-^ 



^•^■ 



%^<^- 



- :« 



^%.^- 



•^^^ 



■^, 



■V v^ -^ 






". -^c. 



N 0- 



■^ 



,s^^' -^r,. 



\ ^^ . . . -' -f; 



oo' 



- 


'^<^^ 


' 


..N>^^' '^^ 






sOO^ 











f 









,.v 






^ 0^- 



^■^ ' T- ' 









.\^ .>' 



V 



c- 0' ■> >■ 



"t/-- V^' 



-,,%##< 



w>^.. x^ ^-. .^ . 



\^ ■'^^.. 






%^ 



jV* 



.-> 



><<. 



'V- 












V ./>, 












' * o 



"^y- V^' 



THE 



LIFE 



AND 



POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS 



WILLIAM COTVPER, Esq. 






% 







'/r/' 



^ 



9 




r '( ( ',>//' /yr 



/Y/y/^v 



J 



Mother ofthcJ'oet . 



*^^ 



-* 



/ 



THE 

LIFE 

AND 

POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS 

OF 

WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

WITH AN 

INTRODUCTORY LETTER 

TO THE 

RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL COWPER. 



BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 



" Obversatiir oculis illevir, quo neminem stas nostra graviorem, sane- 
" tiorem, subtil iorem denique tulit : quern ego quum ex admiratione dili- 
" gere coepissem, quod evenire contra solet, magis admiratus sum, post- 
" quam penitus inspexi. Inspexi enim penitus : nihil a me ille secretum, 
" non joculare, non serium, non triste, non Ixtum." 

Plinii Epist. Lib. iv. Ep. 17. 



VOL. L 



NEW-YORK: 



PRINTED AND SOLD BY T. AND J. SWORDS, 

\'o. 160 Pearl-Street. 

1803. 



CONTENTS 

OF THE 

FIRST VOLUME. 



Introductory Letter. 

The Life, Part the First— the Family, Birth, and first Residence of Cop- 
per — his Eulogy on the Tenderness of his Mother, pages 1, 2. Her 
Portrait — her Epitaph by her Niece, 2, 3. The Schools that Cowper 
attended — his Sufferings in Childhood, 4, 5, 6. Leaves Westminster, 
and is stationed in the House of an Attorney, 6, 7. Verses on his early 
Afflictions, 7, 8. Settles in the Inner Temple — his Acquaintance with 
eminent Authors, 8. His Epistle to Lloyd, 9. His Translations in 
Duncombe's Horace, 11. His own Account of his early Life, 11. 
Stanzas on reading Sir Charles Grandison, 12. Verses written at Bath, 
1748 — his Nomination to the Office of Reading Clerk in the House of 
Lords, 13, 14. His extreme dread of appearing in Public, 15. His 
Health deranged — his Retirement to the House of Dr. Cotton, at St. 
Alban's, 15. His Recovery, 16. He settles at Huntingdon, to be near 
his Brother residing in Cambridge, 17. The two Brothers employed 
on a Translation of Voltaire's Henriade, 17. The Origin of Cowper's 
Acquaintance with the Family of Unwin, 18. He becomes a Part of 
that Family, 19. His early Friendship with Lord Thurlow and Joseph 
Hill, Esq. 19. 

i.etter 



1 


To Joseph Hill, 


Esq. 


June 24, 


1765 


Page 20 


2 


To Major Cowper 


Oct. 18, 


1765 


21 


3 


To Joseph Hill, 


Esq. 


Oct. 25, 


1765 


22 


4 


To Mrs. Cowper 


March 11, 


1766 


23 


5 


To the same 


; 


April 4, 


1766 


24 


6 


To the same 




April 17, 


1766 


25 


7 


To the same 




April 18, 


1766 


27 


8 


To the same 




Sept. 3, 


1766 


29 


9 


To the same 




Oct. 20, 


1765 


31 


10 


To the same 




March 11, 


1767 


32 


11 


To the same 




March 14, 


1767 


34 


12 


To the same 




April 3, 


1767 


ib. 


13 


To the same 




July 13, 


1767 


36 


14 


To Joseph Hill, 


Esq. 


July 16, 


1767 


ib. 



The Origin of Cowper's Acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Newton, 37. 
His Removal with Mrs. Unwin, on the Death of her Husband, to 01- 
ney, in Buckinghamshire — his Devotion and Charity in his new Resi- 
dence, 37. 



vi CONTENTS. 

Letter 15 To Joseph Hill, Esq. June 16, J768 Page 38 

16 To the same 1769 ib. 

A Poem in Memory of John Thornton, Esq. 39. Cowper's Beneficence 

to a Necessitous Child, 40. Composes a Series of Hymns, 41. 
Letter 17 To Mrs. Cowper without date Page 41 

18 To the same Aug. ol, 1769 42 

Cowper is hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous Illness of his Brother, 43 
Letter 19 To Mrs. Cowper March 5, 1770 Page 4A 

A brief Account of the Rev. John Cowper, who died March 20, 1770 — 

and the Tribute paid to his Memory by his Brother the Poet, 44, 45. 
Letter 20 To Joseph Hill, Esq. May 8, 1770 Page 46 

21 To Mrs. Cowper June 7, 1770 47 

22 To Joseph HUl, Esq. Sept. 25, 1770 49 
The Collection of the Olney Hymns interrupted by the Illness of Cowper, 

49. His long and severe Depression — his tame Hares one of his first 
Amusements on his revival, 50, 51, 52. 



Letter 23 


To Joseph Hiil, Esq. 


May 


6, 1780 


Page S3 


24 


To Mrs. Cowper 


May 


10, 1780 


54 


25 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


July 


8, 1780 


ib. 


26 


To Mrs. Cowper 


July 


20, 1780 


55 


27 


To the same 


Aug. 


31, 1780 


56 


28 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


Dec. 


25, 1780 


57 


29 


To the same 


Feb. 


15, 1781 


59 


30 


To the same 


May 


9, 1781 


60 


31 


To Mrs. Cowper 


Oct. 


19, 1781 


61 



The Publication of his first Volume — not immediately successful— probable 
Reasons of the Neglect that it seemed for some Time to experience — 
an Example of the Poet's amiable Ingenuousness in speaking of him- 
self — the various kinds of Excellence in his first Volume, 62 to 65. 



PART THE SECOND. 

The Origin of Cowper's Acquaintance with Lady Austin — a Poetical 
Epistle to that Lady, 67, 68. A Billet to the same Lady, and three 
Songs, written for her Harpsichord, 71 to 74. She relates to Cowper 
the Story of John Gilpin, 75. 
Letter 32 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Feb. 13, 1783 Page 76 

S3 To the same, enclosing a Let- 
ter from Benjamin Franklin Feb. 20, 1783 ib. 

34 To the same without date 77 

35 To the same May 26, 1783 78 

36 To the same Oct. 20, 1783 ib. 
Tlie Origin of the Task, 79. Extracts from Cowper's Letters to the Rev. 

Mr. Bull, relating to the Progress of that Poem, 79, 80. A suddea 
end of the Poet's Intercourse with Lady Austin, 81. 



CONTENTS. vu 

Letter 37 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Sept. 11, 1784 Page 81 

38 To the same without date 82 

39 To the same June 25, 1785 83 
The Publication of Cowper's second Volume, in 1785, leads to a renewal 

rf his Correspondence with his Relation, I.ady Hesketh, 83. 



Letter 40 


To Lady Hesketh 


Oct. 


12, 


1785 


Page 


84 


41 


To the same 


Nov. 


9, 


1785 




86 


42 


To the same 


without date 




88 


43 


To the same 


Dec. 


24, 


1785 




89 


44 


To the same 


Jan. 


10, 


1786 




90 


45 


To the same 


Jan. 


31, 


1786 




91 


46 


To the same 


Feb. 


9, 


1786 




93 


47 


To the same 


Feb. 


11, 


1786 




94 


48 


To the same 


Feb. 


19, 


1786 




96 


49 


To the same 


March 6, 


1786 




98 


50 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. . 


April 


5, 


1786 




100 


51 


To Lady Hesketh 


April 


17, 


1786 




101 


52 


To the same 


April 


24, 


1786 




103 


55 


To the same 


May 


8, 


1786 




104 


54: 


To the same 


May 


15, 


1786 




107 


55 


To the same 


May 


25, 


1786 




110 


56 


To the same 


May 


29, 


1786 




112 


57 


To the same 


June 


4, 


1786 




114 


58 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


June 


9, 


1786 




116 


59 


To the same 


June 


9, 


1786 




117 


60 


To the same 


Oct. 


6, 


1786 




ib. 


Cowper receives at Olney his Relation 


Lady 


Hesketh, 118. 


Extracts 


from his Letters to the Rev. Mr. Bull- 


-Poem 


on Friendship, 


, from 119 


to 128. 


Extract from the Rev. Mr. Newton's Memoirs of Cowper, 


129. 


The Removal of Mrs. Unwin and Cowper from the Town of Olney 


to the "Village of Weston, 130. 












Letter 61 


To Lady Hesketh 


Nov. 


26, 


1786 


Page 


130 


62 


To the same 


Dec. 


4, 


1786 




131 


63 


To the same 


Dec. 


9, 


1786 




133 


64 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


Dec. 


9, 


1786 




ib. 


65 


To Lady Hesketh 


Dec. 


21, 


1786 




134 


66 


To the same 


Jan. 


8, 


1787 




135 


67 


To the same 


Jan. 


8, 


1787 




136 


68 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


July 


24, 


1787 




137 


69 


To the same 


Aug. 


27, 


1787 




138 


70 


To Lady Hesketh 


Aug. 


30, 


1787 




139 


71 


To the same 


Sept. 


4, 


1787 




140 


72 


To the same 


Sept. 


15, 


1787 




141 


73 


To the same 


Sept. 


29, 


1787 




142 


74» 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Oct. 


19, 


1787 




143 


75 


To Lady Hesketh 


Nov. 


10, 


1787 




ib. 



▼iii 


CONTENTS. 










The retired Cat, an occasional Poem, page 144. 




Letter 76 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


Nov. 


16 


1787 


Page 147 


77 


To Lady Hesketh 


Nov. 


27, 


1787 


148 


78 


To the same 


Dec. 


4, 


1787 


149 


79 


To the same 


Dec. 


10, 


1787 


150 


80 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Dec. 


13, 


1787 


151 


81 


To Lady Hesketh 


Jan. 


i. 


1788 


153 


82 


To the same 


Jan. 


19, 


1788 


154 


83 


To the same 


Jan. 


30, 


1788 


155 


84 


To the same 


Feb. 


1, 


1788 


156 


85 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Feb. 


14, 


1788 


157 


86 


To Lady Hesketh 


Feb. 


16, 


1788 


159 


87 


To the same 


Feb. 


22, 


1788 


160 


88 


To the same 


March 3, 


1788 


162 


89 


To the same 


March 12, 


1788 


163 


90 


To General Cowper 


Dec. 


13, 


1787 


164 




The Morning Dream, a 


Ballad, 


page 


164. 




91 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


March 29, 


1788 


166 


92 


To Lady Hesketh 


]March31, 


1788 


167 


93 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


Rlay 


8, 


1788 


168 


94 


To Lady Hesketh 


May 


12, 


1788 


ib. 


95 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


May 


24, 


1788 


169 


96 


To Lady Hesketh 


May 


27, 


1788 


170 


97 


To the same 


June 


3, 


1788 


171 


98 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


June 


8, 


1788 


172 


99 


To Lady Hesketh 


June 


10, 


1788 


173 


100 


To the same 


June 


15, 


1788 


ib. 


101 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


June 


23, 


1788 


174 


102 


To Lady Hesketh 


July 


28, 


1788 


176 


103 


To the same 


Aug. 


9, 


1788 


177 


104 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Aug. 


18, 


1788 


ib. 


105 


To the same 


Sept. 


11, 


1788 


179 




Two Poems on a favourite 


Spaniel 


, page 180. 




106 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Sept. 


25, 


1788 


181 


107 


To the same 


Nov. 


30, 


1788 


182 


108 


To the same 


Jan. 


19, 


1789 


183 


109 


To the same 


Jan. 


24, 


1789 


184 


110 


To the same 


May 


20, 


1789 


ib. 


A Poem on the Qyieen's Visit to London 


, the Night 


of March 17, 1789, 




page 185 










Letter 111 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


June 


5, 


1789 


Page 188 


112 


To the same 


June 


20, 


1789 


ib. 


113 


To Mrs. Throckmorton 


July 


18, 


1789 


189 


114 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


July 


23, 


1789 


190 


115 


To the same 


Aug. 


8, 


1789 


191 


116 


To the same 


Sept. 


24, 


1789 


ib. 





CONTENTS. 






ix 


Letter 117 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Sept. 


11, 


1788 


Page 192 


118 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


Dec. 


18, 


1789 


193 


119 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Jan. 


3, 


1790 


lb. 


120 


To Lady Hesketh 


Jan. 


23, 


1790 


194 


121 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Feb. 


2, 


1790 


195 


122 


To Lady Hesketh 


Feb. 


9, 


1790 


196 


Verses to 


Mrs. Throckmorton, on her 


beautiful 


1 Transcript 


of Horace's 




Ode, Ad Librum suum, page 


197 






Letter 123 


To Lady Hesketh 


Feb. 


26, 


1790 


Page 197 


124 


To Mrs. Bodham 


Feb. 


27, 


1790 


198 


125 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


Feb. 


28, 


1790 


200 


126 


To Lady Hesketh 


March 8, 


1790 


202 


12r 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


March 11, 


1790 


ib. 


128 


To Mrs. Throckmorton 


March 21, 


1790 


203 


129 


To Lady Hesketh 


March 22, 


1790 


204" 


130 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


March 23, 


1790 


205 


131 


To the same 


April 


17, 


1790 


206 


132 


To Lady Kesketh, 


April 


19, 


1890 


208 


133 


To the same 


April 


30, 


1790 


ib. 


134 


To Mrs. Throckmorton 


May 


10, 


1790 


209 


135 


To Lady Hesketh 


May 


28, 


1790 


210 


156 


To the same 


June 


>>, 


1790 


ib. 


137 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


June 


7, 


1790 


211 


138 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


June 


8, 


1790 


212 


139 


To Mrs. Bodham 


June 


29, 


1790 


213 


140 


To Lady Hesketh 


July 


7, 


1790 


214 


141 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


July 


8, 


1790 


215 


142 


To the same 


July 


31, 


1790 


216 


143 


To Mrs. Bodham 


Sept. 


9, 


1790 


ib. 


144 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Sept. 


13, 


1790 


217 


145 


To Mrs. Bodham 


Nov. 


21, 


1790 


218 


146 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


Nov. 


26, 


1790 


219 


147 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Nov. 


30, 


1790 


220 


148 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


Dec. 


18, 


1790 


ib. 


149 


To the same 


Jan. 


21, 


1791 


221 


150 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


Feb. 


5, 


1791 


222 


151 


To Lady Hesketh ' 


Feb. 


13, 


1791 


ib. 


152 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


Feb. 


27, 


1791 


223 


153 


To Joseph Hill, Esq. 


March 6, 


1791 


224 


154 


To the same 


March 10, 


1791 


ib. 


155 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


March 19, 


1791 


ib. 


156 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


March 24, 


1791 


225 


157 


To Mrs. Throckmorton 


April 


1, 


1791 


226 


158 


To John Johnson, Esq. 


April 


6, 


1791 


ib. 


159 


To Samuel Rose, Esq. 


April 


29, 


1791 


237 


160 


To Jolm Johnson, Esq. 


May 


23, 


1791 


ib. 


VOt. I, 


. A 











X CONTENTS. 

The Judgment of the Poets, an occasional Poem, page 228. 
Letter 161 To Samuel Rose, Esq. June 15, 1791 Page 229 

The first Publication of Covvper's Homer — the Pleasure he derived from 

that Work — Extract of a Letter on the Subject to his Kinsman, of 

Norfolk, page 230, to the end of the Volume. 



DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER, 

The Portrait of Cowper as a Frontispiece to Vol. I. 
The Portrait of Mrs. Cowper to face Page 3, Vol. I. 



1?^' 



INTRODUCTORY LETTER 

TO THE 

Right Honourable Earl COWPER. 

Y OUR family, my Lord, our country itself, and the whole 
' literary world, sustained such a loss in the death of that 
amiable man and enchanting author who forms the subject 
of these volumes, as inspired the friends of genius and virtue 
with universal concern. It soon became a general wish, that 
some authentic and copious memorial of a character so highly 
interesting should be produced with all becoming dispatch ; 
not only to render due honour to the dead, but to alleviate 
the regret of a nation taking a just and liberal pride in the 
reputation of a poet, who had obtained and deserved her 
applause, her esteem, her affection. If this laudable wish 
was very sensibly felt by the public at large, it glowed with 
peculiar warmth and eagerness in the bosom of the few who 
had been so fortunate as to enjoy an intimacy with Cowper 
in some unclouded pei'iods of his life, and who knew, from 
such an intimacy, that a lively sweetness and sanctity of 
spirit were as truly the characteristics of his social enjoy- 
ments, as they are allowed to constitute a principal charm in 
his poetical productions. — It has justly been regarded as a 
signal blessing, to have possessed the perfect esteem and 
confidence of such a man : and not long after his decease, 
one of his particular friends presumed to suggest to an ac- 
complished lady, nearly related both to him and to your 
Lordship, that she herself might be the biographer the most 
worthy of the poet. The long intimacy and correspondence 
which she enjoyed with him, from their lively hours of in- 



xil INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 

fantile friendship to the dark evening of his wonderfully 
chequered life ; her cultivated and affectionate mind, which 
led her to take peculiar delight and interest in the merit 
and the reputation of his writings ; and, lastly, that generous 
attachment to her afflicted relation which induced her to 
watch over his disordered health, in a period of its most 
calamitous depression ; — these circumstances, united, seemed 
to render it desirable that she should assume the office of 
Cowper's biographer; having such advantages for the perfect 
execution of that very delicate office as, perhaps, no other 
memorialist could possess in an equal degree. For the in- 
terest of literature, and for the honour of many poets, whose 
memories have suffered from some biographers of a very 
diffei'ent description, we may wish that the extensive series 
of poetical biography had been frequently enriched by the 
memoirs of such remembrancers as feel only the influence 
of tenderness and truth. Some poets, indeed, of recent 
times, have been happy in this most desirable advantage. 
The Scottish favourite of nature, the tender and impetuous 
Burns, has found, in Dr. Currie, an ingenuous, eloquent, 
affectionate biographer; and in a lady also (whose memoir 
of her friend, the bard, is very properly annexed to his life) 
a zealous and graceful advocate, singularly happy in vindi- 
cating his character from invidious detraction. We may 
observe, to the honour of Scotland, that her national enthu- 
siasm has, for some years, been very laudably exerted in 
cherishing the memory of her departed poets. — But to 
return to the lady who gave rise to this remark. The na- 
tural diffidence of her sex, uniting with extreme delicacy of 
health, induced her, eager as she is to promote the celebrity 
of her deceased relation, to shrink from the idea of submit- 
ting herself, as an author, to the formidable eye of the public. 
Her knowledge of the very cordial regard with which Cowper 
has honoured me, as one of his most confidential friends, 
led her to request that slie might assign to me that arduous 
office, which she candidly confessed she had not the resolu- 
tion to assume. She confided to my care such materials for 
the work in question, as her affinity to the deceased had 



INTRODUCTORY LETTER. xiii 

riirown into her hands. In receiving a collection of many- 
private letters, and of several posthumous little poems, in 
the well-known characters of that beloved correspondent, at 
the sight of whose hand I have often exulted, I felt the 
blended emotions of melancholy regret, and of awful plea- 
sure. Yes, I was pleased that these affecting papers were 
entrusted to my care, because some incidents induce me to 
believe that, if their revered author had been solicited to 
appoint a biographer for himself, he would have assigned to 
me this honourable task. Yet, honourable as I considered it, 
I was perfectly aware of the difficulties and the dangers at- 
tending it. One danger, indeed, appeared to me of such a 
nature as to require perpetual caution as I advanced : I 
mean the danger of being led, in writing as the biographer 
of my friend, to speak infinitely too much of myself. To 
avoid the offensive failing of egotism, I had resolved, at first, 
to make no inconsiderable sacrifice, and to suppress, in his 
letters, every particle of praise bestowed upon myself. I 
soon found it impossible to do so without injuring the tender 
and generous spirit of my friend. I have, therefore, suffered 
many expressions of his affectionate partiality towards me to 
appear, at the hazard of being censured for inordinate vanity. 
To obviate such a censure, I will only say, that I have en- 
deavoured to execute what I regard as a mournful duty, as 
if I were under the immediate and visible direction of the 
most pure, the most truly modest, and the most gracefully 
virtuous mind, that I had ever the happiness of knowing in 
the form of a manly friend. It is certainly my wish that 
these volumes may obtain the entire approbation of the 
world ; but it is infinitely more my desire and ambition to 
render them exactly such as I think most likely to gratify 
the conscious spirit of Cowper himself in a superior exist- 
ence. The person who recommended it to his female relation 
to continue her exemplary regard to the poet, by appearing 
as his biographer, advised her to relate the particulars of his 
life in the form of letters addressed to your Lordship. He 
cited, on the occasion, a striking passage from the memoirs 
of Gibbon, in which that great historian pays a just and a 



xW INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 

splendid compliment to one of the early English poets, who, 
in the tenderness and purity of his heart, and in the vivid 
powers of description, may be thought to resemble Cowper. 
The passage I allude to is this: " The nobility of the Spen- 
cers has been illustrated and enriched by the trophies of 
Marlborough ; but I exhort them to consider the Fairy Queen 
as the most precious jewel of their coronet." If this lively- 
metaphor is just in every point of view, we may regard The 
Task as a jewel of pre-eminent lustre in the coronet belong- 
ing to the noble family of Cowper. Under the influence of 
this idea, allow me, my Lord, to address to you such me- 
moirs of your admirable relation, as my own intimacy with 
him, and the kindness of those who knew and loved him 
most truly, have enabled me to compose. I will tell you, 
"with perfect sincerity, all my motives for addressing them to 
your Lordship. First, I flatter myself it may be a pleasing, 
and, permit me to say, not an unuseful occupation to an in- 
genuous young nobleman, to trace the steps by which a re- 
tired man, of the most diffident modesty, whose private vir- 
tues did honour to his name, arose to peculiar celebrity. 
My second motive is, I ov/n, of a more selfish nature ; for I 
am persuaded, that, in addressing my work to you, I give 
the public a satisfactory pledge for the authenticity of my 
materials. I will not pretend to say that I hold it in the 
power of any title, or affinity, to reflect an additional lustre 
on the memory of the departed poet : for I think so highly 
of poetical distinction, when that distinction is pre-eminently 
obtained by genius, piety, and benevolence, that all common 
honours appear to be eclipsed by a splendour more forcible 
and extensive. Great poets, my Loi'd, and that I may speak 
of them as they deserve, let me say, in the words of Horace, 

Primum me illoriim, dederim quibiis esse Poetas, 
Excerpam iiuniero — 

Great poets have generally united in their destiny those ex- 
tremes of good and evil, which Homer, their immortal pre- 
sident, assigns to the bard he describes, and which he ex- 
emplified himself in his own person. — Their lives have been 



INTRODUCTORY LETTER. xt 

frequently chequered by the darkest shades of calamity ; but 
their personal infelicities are nobly compensated by the pre- 
valence and the extent of their renown. To set this in the 
most striking point of view, allow me to compare poetical 
celebrity with the fame acquired by the exertion of different 
mental powers in the highest department of civil life. The 
Lord Chancellors of England may be justly regarded among 
the personages of the modern world, peculiarly exalted by 
intellectual endowments: with two of these illustrious cha- 
racters, the poet, whose life I have endeavoured to delineate, 
was in some measure connected ; being related to one, the 
immediate ancestor of your Lordship, and being intimate, 
in early life, with a Chancellor of the present reign, whose 
elevation to that dignity he has recorded in rhyme. Much 
respect is due to the legal names of Cowper, and of Thurlow. 
Knowledge, eloquence, and political importance, conspired 
to aggrandize the men who added those names to the list of 
English nobility : yet, after the lapse of a few centuries, they 
will shine only like very distant constellations, merely visi- 
ble in the vast expanse of history ! But, at that time, the 
poet of whom I speak, will continue to sparkle in the eyes 
of all men, like the radiant star of the evening, perpetually 
hailed by the voice of gratitude, affection, and delight. There 
is a principle of unperishable vitality (if I may use such an 
expression) in the compositions of Cowper, Avhich must en- 
sure to them in future ages, what we have seen them so 
happily acquire and maintain in the present — universal admi- 
ration and love ! His poetry is to the heart and the fancy, 
what the moral essays of Bacon are to the understanding, a 
never-cloying feast ! 

" As if increase of appetite liad grown 
'* By what it fed on." 

Like them it comes " home to the business and bosom of 
every man ;" by possessing the rare and double talent to fami- 
liarize and endear the most awful subjects, and to dignify 
the most familiar, the poet naturally becomes a favourite 
with readers of every description. His works must interest 



xYi INTRODUCTORY LETTER. ^ 

every nation under heaven, where his sentiments are under- 
stood, and w^here the feelings of humanity pi'evail. Yet 
their author is eminently an Englishman, in the noblest 
sense of that honourable appellation. He loved the consti- 
tution ; he revered the religion of his country ; he was ten- 
derly, and generously alive to her real interest and honour j 
and perhaps of her many admirable poets, not one has 
touched her foibles, and celebrated her perfections, with a 
spirit so truly filial. — But I perceive that I am in danger of 
going far beyond my design in this introductory letter, for it 
was my intention not to enter into the merits of his chax'acter 
here, but to inform you in what manner I wish to make that 
character display itself to my readers, as far as possible, in 
his own most interesting language. — Perhaps no man ever 
possessed the powers of description in a higher degree, both 
in verse and prose. By weaving into the texture of these 
Memoirs, an extensive selection of his private letters, and 
several of his posthumous poems, I trust that a faithful re- 
presentation of him has been formed, where the most strik- 
ing features will appear the work of his own inimitable hand. 
The result of the whole production will, I am confident, 
establish one most satisfactory truth, interesting to society 
in general, and to your Lordship in particular: the ti'uth I 
mean is expressed in the final verse of an epitaph, which 
the hand of friendship inscribed to your excellent relation: 

" His virtues form'd the magic of his song." 

May the affectionate zeal with which I have endeavoured 
to render all the justice in my power to his variety of merit, 
atone for whatever deficiencies may be found in this imper- 
fect attempt, and lead both your Lordship and our Country 
to honour with some degree of approbation, 

Your very faithful servant, 

WILLIAM HAYLEY. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 

PART THE FIRST. 

INGEKIUM PROBrrAS, ARTEMQVE MODESTIA ri\'CIT. 

jL he family of Cow per appears to have held, for sfeveral cen- 
turies, a respectable rank among the merchants and gentry of Eng- 
land. We learn from the life of the first Earl Cowper, in the Bio-* 
graphia Britannica, that his ancestors were inhabitants of Sussex, 
in the reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is found repeatedly 
among the Sheriffs of London ; and John Cowper, who resided as 
a country gentleman in Kent, was created a Baronet by King 
Charles the First, in 1641. But the family rose to higher distinc- 
tion in the beginning of the last century, by tlie remarkable cir- 
cumstance of producing two brothers, who both obtained a seat in 
the house of peers by eminence in the profession of the law. 
M'illiam, the eldest, became Lord High Chancellor b 1707. 
Spencer Cowper, the yoimgest, was appointed Chief Justice of 
Chester in 1717, and afterwards a judge in the court of Common 
Pleas, being permitted, by the particular favour of the King, to hold 
those two offices to the end of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, 
on the 10th of December, 1728, and has the higher claim to our 
notice as the immediate ancestor of the Poet. By Theodora, his 
second wife, the widow of George Stepney, Esq. Judge Cowper 
left several children ; among them a daughter Judith, who, at the 
age of eighteen, discovered a striking talent for poetry, in the 
praise of her cotemporary poets Pope and Hughes. This lady, 
the wife of Colonel Mudan, transmitted her own poetical and de- 
vout spirit to her daughter Frances Maria, who was married to 
her cousin. Major Cowper, and whose amiable character will lui- 
fold itself in the course of this work, as the friend and correspon- 
dent of her more eminent relation, the second grandchild of the 
judge, destined to honour the name of Cowper, by displa) ing, with 
peculiar purity and fervour, the double enthusiasm of poetry and 
devotion. The father of the great author to whom I allude, was 
John Cowper, the judge's second son, who took his degrees in di- 
vinity, wi.s chaplain to King George the Second, and resided at 

VOL. I. B 



2 LIFE OF COWPER. 

his Rectory of Great Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, the scene 
of the Poet's iiifanc}", which he has thus commemorated in a sin- 
gularly beautifiil and pathetic composition on the portrait of his 
mother. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard'no more, 

Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor, 

And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day. 

Drew me to school along the public way; 

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 

'Tis now become a history little known, 

That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 

Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair 

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 

Still outlives many a stoi-m that has eflFac'd 

A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; 

Thy morning bounties, ere I left my home, 

The biscuit, or confectionary plumb ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow 'd 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd. 

All this, and more endearing still than all. 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall; 

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and break;*, 

That humour interpos'd too often makes. 

All this, still legible in memory's page. 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honours to thee as my numbers may. 

The parent whose merits are so feelingly recorded by the filial 
tenderness of the Poet, was Ann, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq. 
of Ludham Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whose family is said to 
have been originally from Wales, was married, in the bloom of 
youth, to Dr. Co\vper; after giving birth to several children, who 
died in their infancy, and lea«\dng two sons, William, the immediate 
subject of this memoiial, born at Berkhamstead on the 26th of 
November, N. S. 1731, and John (whose accomplishments and 
n^emorable death will be described in the course of this compilation), 
she died in childbed at the early age of thirty-four, in 1737. It may 
be wislied that the painter emplojed to preserve a resemblance^ 
(if such a woman had possessed tliose powers of graceful and per- 



LIFE OF COWPER. S 

feet delineation which, in a different art, belonged to the pen of her 
son ; but her portrait, executed by Heins in oil-colours, on a small 
•scale, is a production infinitely inferior to the very beautiful poem 
to which it gave rise. Yet such as it is, I apprehend it will gratify 
my reader to find it in this volume correctly engraved; for what 
lover of poetry can fail to take an affectionate interest in the mother 
of CoAvper? Those who delight in contemplating the best affec- 
tions of our nature, will ever admire the tender sensibility with 
which the Poet has acknowledged his obligations to this amiable 
mother, in a poem composed more thaniifty yeai's after her decease. 
Readers of this description may find a pleasure in observing how 
the praise so liberally bestowed on this tender parent, at so late a 
period, is confirmed (if praise so unquestionable may be said to re- 
ceive confirmation) by another poetical record of her merit, which 
the hand of affinity and affection bestowed upon her tomb. A re- 
cord written at a time when the Poet, who was destined to prove, 
in his advanced life, her more powerful eulogist, had hardly begim 
to show the dawn of that genius which, after years of silent afflic- 
lion, arose like a star emerging from tempestuous darkness. 

The monument of Mrs. Cowper, erected by her husband in the 
chancel of St. Peter's churcln^ at Berkhamstead, contains the fol- 
lowing verses, composed by a young lady, her niece, the late Lady 
Walsingham : 

Here lies, in early j'ears bereft of life, 
The best of mothers, and the kindest wife ; 
Who neither knew, nor practis'd any art. 
Secure in all she wish'd, her husband's heart. 
Her love to him still prevalent in death, 
Pray'd Heaven to bless him with her latest breathy 

Still was she studious never to offend. 
And glad of an occasion to commend : 
With ease would pardon injuries receiv'd. 
Nor e'er was cheerful when another grieved. 
Despising state, with her own lot content, 
Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well-spent. 
Resign'd when Heaven demanded back her breath. 
Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death. 

Whoe'er thou art that dost this Tomb draw near, 
O stay awhile, and shed a friendly tear. 
These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere. 



} 



The truth and tenderness of this Epitaph will more than com- 
'jicnsate with every candid reader the imperfection ascribed to it by 



4 LIFE OF COWPER. 

its young and modest Author. To have lost a parent of a charac- 
ter so virtuous and endearing, at an early period of his childhood, 
was the prime misfortune of CoAvper, and what contributed, per-, 
haps in the highest degree, to the dark colouring of his subsequent 
life. The influence of a good mother on the first years of her chil- 
dren, whether nature has given them peculiar strength, or pecu- 
liar delicacy of frame, is equally inestimable : It is the prerogative 
and the felicity of such a mother to temper the arrogance of the 
strong, and to dissipate the timidity of the tender. The infancy of 
Cowper was delicate in no common degree, and his constitution 
discovered, at a very early season, that morbid tendency to diffi- 
dence, to melancholy, and despair, which darkened as he advanced 
in years into periodical fits of the most deplorable depression. 

It may aiFord an ample field for useful reflection to observe, in 
speaking of a child, that he was destined to excite, in his progress 
through life, the highest degrees of admiration and of pity — of 
admiration for mental excellence, and of pity for mental disorder. 

We understand human nature too imperfectly to ascertain in 
what measure the original structure of his frame, and the casual 
incidents of his life, contributed to the happy perfection of his ge- 
nius, or to the calamitous eclipses of his effulgent mind. Yet suck 
were the talents, the virtues, and the misfortunes of this wonderful 
person, that it is hardly possible for Biography, extensive as her 
province is, to speak of a more interesting individual, or to select 
a subject on which it may be more difficult to satisfy a variety of 
readers. In feeling all the weight of this difficulty, I may stili be 
confident that I shall not utterly disappoint his sincerest admirers, 
if the success of my endeavours to make him more known, and 
more beloved, is proportioned, in any degree, to the zeal with 
which I cultivated his friendship, and to the gratification that I feel 
in recalling to my own recollection the delightful extent and diver- 
sity of his literary powers, with the equally delightfiil sweetness of 
his social character. 

But the powerful influence of such recollection has draAvn me 
imperceptibly from the proper course of my narrative. — I return 
to the childhood of Cowper. In first quitting the house of his, 
])arents, he was sent to a reputable school at Market-Street, in 
Hertfordshire, under the care of Dr. Pitman, and it is probable that 
he was removed from it in consequence of an oculai' complaint. 
From a circumstance which he relates of himself at that period, in 
a letter written to me in 17^2, he seems to have been in danger of 
resembling Milton in the misfortune of blindness, as he resembled 
him, more happily, in the fervency of a devout and poetical spirit. 

" I have been all my life," says Cov/per, " subject to infiamma- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 5 

tioii« of the eye, and in my boyish days had specks on both that 
threatened to cover them. My father, alarmed for the conse- 
quences, sent me to a female ocuUst of great renown at that time, 
in whose house I abode two years, but to nd good purpose. From 
her I went to Westminster school, where, at the age of fourteen, 
the small-pox seized me, and proved the better oculist of the two, 
for it delivered me from them all. Net, however, from great lia- 
bleness to inflammation, to which I am in a degree still subject, 
though much less than formerly, since I have been constant in the 
use of a hot foot-bath every night, the last thing before going to rest. " 
It appears a strange process in education to vsend a tender child 
from a long residence in the licuse of a female oculist immediately 
into all the hardships that a little delicate boy must have to encoun- 
ter at a public school. But the mother of Cowper was dead, and 
fathers, thcugh good men, are, in general, utterly unfit to manage 
their young and tender orphans. The little Cowper was sent to his 
first school in the year of his mother's death, and how ill-suited the 
scene was to his peculiar character, must be evident to all who have 
heard him describe his sensations in that season of life, which is 
often, very erroneously, extolled as the happiest period of human 
existence. He has been frequently heard to lament the persecu- 
tion that he sustained in his childish }ears, from the cruelty of his 
school-fellows, in the two scenes of his education. His own forci- 
ble expression represented him at Westminster as not daring to 
raise his eye above the shoe-buckle of the elder boys, who were too 
apt to tyrannize over his gentle spirit. The acuteness of his feel- 
ings in his childhood rendered those important years (which might 
have produced, under tender cultivation, a series of lively enjoy- 
ments) miserable years of increasing timirlity and depression, 
which, in the most cheerful hcurs of his advanced life, he could 
hardly describe to an intimate friend, without shuddering at tlie 
recollection of his early wretchedness. Yet to this, perhaps, the 
world is indebted for the pathetic and moi'al eloquence of those 
forcible admonitions to parents which give interest and beauty to 
his admirable Poem on Public Schools. Poets may be said to rea- 
lize, in some measure, the poetical idea of the Nightingale singing 
with a thorn at her breast, as their most exquisite songs have often 
originated in the acuteness of their personal sufferings. Of this 
obvious truth, the Poem I have just mentioned is a very memora- 
ble example ; and if any readers have thought the Poet too severe 
in his strictures en that system of education to which we owe some 
of the most accomplished characters that ever gave celcln-ity to a 
ci\ ilized nation, such readers will be candidly reconciled to that 
mcral severity of reproof, ia rccclkctirig that it flowed frcm se- 



6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

vere persorfal experience, united to the purest spirit of pUilai^^ 
thropy and patriotism. 

Cowper's exhortation to fathers, to educate their own sons, is a 
model of persuasive eloquence, and not inferior to similar exhor- 
tations in the eloquent Rousseau, or in the accomplished translator 
of Tansillo's poem, the Nurse, by which -these enchanting writer? 
have induced, and will continue to induce, so many xnothers in 
polished life to suckle their own childi'^n. Yet similar as these eXr 
hortations maybe esteemed, m their benevolent design, and in their 
graceful expression, there are two powerful reasons, which must, 
in all probability, prevent their being attended with similar success. 
In the first place, woman has, in general, much stronger propen- 
sity than man to the perfect discharge of parental duties ; and, se-« 
condly, the avocations of men are so imperious, in their different 
lines of life, that few fathers could command sufficient leisure (if 
nature fin'nished them with talents and inclination) to fulfil the ar- 
duous office of preceptor to their own children ; yet arduous and 
irksome as the office is generally thought, there is perhaps no sper 
cies of mental labour so perfectly sweet in its success; and the Poet 
justly exclaims: 

O 'tis a sight to be with joy pei'us'd, 

A sight sui-pass'd by none that we can show! 



A Father blest with an ingenuous Son ; 
Father, and Friend, and Tutor, all in one. 

Had the constitutional shyness and timidity of Cowper beeit 
gradually dispelled by the rai-e advantage that he describes in these 
verses, his early years would certainly have been happier ; but men 
who are partial to public schools will probably doubt if any system 
of private tuition could have proved more favourable to the futui'e 
display of his genius, than such an education as he received atWest,- 
minster, where, however the peculiar delicacy of his nature might 
expose him to an extraordinary portion of juvenile discomfoi-t, he 
undoubtedly acquired the accomplishment and the reputation of 
ischolarship, with the advantage of being known and esteemed by 
some aspiring youths of his own age, who were destined to become 
conspicuous and powerful in the splendid scenes of the world. 

^Vith these acquisitions he left Westminster, at the age of 
eighteen, in 1749 ; and, as if destiny had determined that aU his 
early situations in life should be peculiarly irksome to his delicate 
feelings, and tend rafiei* to promote than to counteract a constitu*- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 7 

lional tendency to a morbid sensibility in his frame, he was re- 
moved from a public school to the office of an attorney. He re- 
sided three years in the house of a Mr. Chapman, to whom' he was 
engaged by articles for that time- Here he was placed for the 
study of a profession which nature seemed resolved that he nevei' 
should practise. 

The law is a kind of soldiership, and, like the profession of 
arms, it may be said to require for the constitution of its heroes 

'' A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." 

v'Tlie soul of Cowper had indeed its fire, but fire so refined and 
etherial, that it could not be expected to shine in the gross at- 
mosphere of worldly contention. Perhaps there never existed a 
mortal who, possessing, with a good person, intellectual powers 
naturally strong, and highly cultivated, was so utterly unfit to en- 
counter the bustle and perplexities of public life. But tlie extreme 
Huodesty and shmess of his nature, wjiich disqualified him for 
scenes of business and ambition, endeared him inexpressibly to 
tliose who had opportmiities to enjoy his society, and faculties to 
appreciate the uncommon excellence of his interesting character. 

Reserved as he was, to an extraordinary and painful degree, his 
F;e art and mind were yet admirably fasliioned by nature for all the 
refined intercourse and confidential delights, both of friendship and 
of love : but though apparently formed to possess, and to commu- 
nicate an extraordinaiy portion of mortal felicit}^, the incidents of 
his life were such, that, conspiring with the peculiarities of his na- 
ture, tiiey rendered him, at different times, the most unhappy of 
mankind. The variety and depth of his sufferings, in early life, 
fiom extreme tenderness of heart, are very forcibly displa}"ed in 
the following verses, which formed part of a letter to one of his 
female relations at the time thev were composed. The letter has 
perished; and the verses owe their preservation to the affectionate' 
^lemory of the lady to whom they were addressed. 

Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste 
The present moments, and regret the past ; 
Depi-iv'd of every joy I valued most, 
My Friend torn from me, and my Mistress lost; 
Call not this gloom, I wear, this anxious mien, 
i'lie dull effect of humour, or of spleen ! 
Still, still I mourn, with each returning day, 
Him* snatch'd by Fate, in early youth, away. 

* Sir Wiliiam Russe!, the favourite friend of the young Poer. 



8 LIFE OF COWPER. 

And her — through tedious years of doubt and pain, 
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — ^but in vain '. 
() prone to pity, generous, and sincere. 
Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; 
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knowsj: 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; 
See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
Cast forth a wand'rer on a wild unknown i 
See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
Each dear Companion of my voyage lost ! 
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow I 
And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 
Wliy all that sooths a heart, from anguish freCj 
All that delights the happy — palls with me 1 

When he quitted the house of the solicitor, where he was placed 
to acquire the rudiments of litigation, he settled himself in cham- 
bers of the Inner-Temple, as a regular student of law ; l)ut although 
he resided there to the age of thirty-three, he rambled (according 
to his own colloquial account of his early years) from the thorny 
road of his austere patroness, Jurisprudence, into the primrose paths 
of Literature and Poetry. Even here his native diffidence confined 
him to social and subordinate exertions. He wrote and printed 
both prose and verse, as the concealed assistant of less diffident 
authors. During his residence in the Temple, he cultivated the 
friendship of some eminent literary characters, who had been his 
school -fellows at Westminster, particularly Colman, Bonnel Thoru-?^ 
ton, and Lloyd. His i-egard to the two first induced him to contri-f 
bute to their periodical publication, entitled the Connoisseur, three 
excellent papers, which the reader will find in the Appendix to 
these volumes, and from which he will perceive, that Cowper had 
such talents for this pleasant and useful species of composition, as 
might have rendered him a worthy associate, in such labours, to 
Addison himself, whose graceful powers ha\e never been surpassed 
in that province of literature, which may still be considered as pe- 
culiarly his own. 

The intimacy of Cowper and Lloyd may have giAcn rise perhaps 
fo some early productions of our Poet, which it may now be hardly 
possible to ascertain ; the probability of this conjecture arises from 
the necessities of Lloyd, and the affectionate liberality of his friend. 
As the former Avas tempted, by his narrow finances, to engage in 
periodical works, it is highly probable that the pen of CoAvper, ever' 
ready to second the charitable wishes of his heart, might be de- 
vctcd to the service of an indigent Author, whom he appears ta 



LIFE OF eOWPER. 9 

have loved with a very cordial affection. I find that affection agree- 
ably displayed in a sportive poetical epistle, which may claim a 
place in this volume, not only as an early specimen of Cowper's 
poetrv, but as exliibiting a sketch of his own mind at the age of 
twenty-three. 

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 1754. 
'Tis not that I design to rob 
Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob, 
For thou art born sole heir, and single, 
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle; 
Nor that I mean, while thus I knit 
M>, thread-bare sentiments together, 
To show my genius, or my wit, 
Wlien God and you know I have neither } 
Or such, as might be better shown 
By lettmg Poetry alone. 
'Tis not with either of these views 
That I presume to address the Muse ; 
But to divert a fierce banditti, 
(Sworn foes to every thing that's witty !) 
That, with a black, infernal ti-ain, 
Make cruel inroads in my brain, 
And daily threaten to drive thence 
My little garrison of sense : 
The fierce banditti which I mean, 
Are gloomy thoughts, led on by spleen* 

Then there's another reason yet, 
WHiich is, that I may fairly quit 

The debt, which justly became due 

The moment when I heard from you : 

And you might grumble, crony mine, 

If paid in any other coin ; 

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows 

(I would say twenty sheets of prose) 

Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much 

As one of gold, and yours was such. 

Thus, the preliminaries settled, 

I fairly find myself fiitch-kettied;* 

And cannot see, tho' few see better. 

How I shall hammer out a letter. 

« Pitch-hettkd, a favourite phrase at the time when this Epistle was written, expressive of 
Uein.:; puzzled; or what, in the Spectator's time, would have been called bambcozUd. 
VOL. I. ^ 



10 LIFE OF COWPER. 

First, for a thought — since all agree— 
A thought — I have it — let me see — 
'Tis gone again — Plague on'tl I thought 
I had it — ^but I have it not. 
Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, 
That useful thing, her needle, gone ; 
Rake well the cinders; — sweep the floor. 
And sift the dust behind the door ; 
\\Tiile eager Hodge beholds the prize 
In old Grimalkin's glaring eyes; 
And Gammer finds it on her knees 
In every shining straw she sees. 
Tliis simile were apt enough ; 
But I've another critic-proof! 
The Vii'tuoso thus, at noon 
Broiling beneath a July siin, 
The gilded Butterfly pursues, 
O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews; 
And after many a vain essay 
To captivate the tempting prey, 
Gives him at length the lucky pat. 
And has him safe, beneath his hat : 
Then lifts it gently from the ground ; 
But ah ! 'tis lost as soon as found ; 
Culprit his liberty regains. 
Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. 
The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit 
With simile t' illustrate it ; 
But as too much obscures the sight, 
As often as too little light, 
We have our similies cut short. 
For matters of more grave import. 
That Matthew's numbers run with ease, 
Each man of common sense agrees ; 
All men of common sense allow, 
That Robert's lines are easy too : 
Where then the preference shall we place ? 
Or how do justice in this case ? 
Matthew (says Fame), with endless pains, 
Smooth'd, and refin'd, the meanest strains ; 
Nor suffer'd one ill chosen rhyme 
T' escape him at the idlest time ; 
And thus o'er all a lustre cast, 
That, while the language lives, shall last. 



LIFE OF COWTER. 11 

An't please your Ladyship (quoth I), 

For 'tis my business to reply ; 

Sure so much labour, so much toil, 

Bespeak at least a stubborn soils 

Theirs te the laurel-wreath decreed, 

Who both write well, and write full speed! 

Who throw their Helicon about 

As freely as a conduit spout ! 

Friend Robert, thus like chien scavanty 

Let's fall a poem en passant; 

Nor needs his genuine ore refine, 

'Tis i-eady polish 'd from the mine. 

It may be proper to observe, that this lively praise on the playful 
talent of Lloyd was written six years before that amiable but un- 
fortunate author published the best of his serious poems, " The 
Actor," a composition of considerable merit, which proved a pre- 
lude to the more powerful and popular Rosciad of Churchill ; who, 
after surpassing Lloyd as a rival, assisted him very liberally as a 
friend. While Cowper resided in the Temple, he seems to have 
been personally acquainted with the most eminent writers of the 
time ; and the interest which he probably took in their recent works 
tended to increase his powerful though diffident passion for poetry, 
and to train him imperceptibly to that masterly command of lan- 
guage, which time and chance led him to display, almost as a new 
talent, at the age of fifty. One of his first associates has informed 
me, that before he quitted London he frequently amused himself 
in translation from ancient and modern poets, and devoted his com- 
position to the service of any friend who requested it. In a copy 
of Buncombe's Horace, printed in 1759, I find two of the Satires 
translated by Cowper. The Duncombes, father and son, were 
amiable scholars, of a Hertfordshire family ; and the elder Dun- 
combe, in his printed letters, mentions Dr. CoAvper (the father of 
the Poet) as one of his friends, who possessed a talent for poetry, 
exhibiting, at the same time, a respectable specimen of liis verse. 
The Duncombes, in the preface to their Horace, impute the size 
of their work to the poetical contributions of their friends. At 
what time the two Satires I have mentioned were translated by 
William Cowper, I have not been able to ascertain ; but tliey are 
worthy his pen, and will, therefore, appear in the Appendix to 
these volumes. 

Speaking of his own early life, in a letter to Mr. Park, dated 
March, 1792, Cowper says, with that extreme modesty which was 
one of his most remarkable characteristics, " From the age of 



12 LIFE OF COWPER. 

twenty to thirty-three, I was occupied, or ought to have been, in 
the study of the law ; from thirty-three to sixty I have spent my 
time in the country, where my reading has been only an apology 
for idleness ; and where, when I had not either a Magazine or a 
Review, I was sometimes a carpenter, at others a bird-cage maker, 
or a gardener, or a drawer of landscapes. At fifty years of age 
I commenced an author : it is a whim that has served me longest 
and best, and will probably be my last." 

Lightly as this most modest of Poets has spoken of his own ex- 
ertions, and late as he appeared to himself in producing his chief 
poetical works, he had received from nature a contemplative spirit, 
perpetually acquiring a store of mental treasure, which he at last 
unveiled, to delight and astonish the world with its unexpected 
magnificence. Even his juvenile verses discover a mind deeply 
impressed with sentiments of piety ; and, in proof of this assertion, 
I select a few stanzas from an Ode written, when he was very 
young, on reading Sir Charles Grandison. 

To rescue from the tyrant's sword 

The oppress'd ; — ^unseen, and unimplor'd, 

To cheer the face of woe j 
From lawless insult to defend 
An orphan's right — a fallen friend, 

And a forgiven foe ; 

These, these distinguish, from the crowd, 
And these alone, the great and good. 

The guardians of mankind; 
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
O, with what matchless speed they leave 

The multitude behind [ 

Then ask ye from what cause on earth 
Virtues like these derive their birth ? 

Derived from Heaven alone. 
Full on that favour 'd breast they shine, 
Where Faith and Resignation join 

To call the blessing down. 

Such is that heart : — But while the Muse 
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, 

Her feebler spirits faint : 
She cannot reach, and would not wrong 
That subject for an Angel's song, 

The Hero and the Saint. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 13 

His early turn to moralize, on the slightest occasion, will appear 
from the following Verses, which he wrote at the age of eighteen; 
and in which those who love to trace the rise and progress of ge- 
nius will, I think, be pleased to remark the very promising seeds 
of those peculiar powers which unfolded themselves in the richest 
maturity, at a distant period, and rendered that beautiful and sub- 
lime poem, The Task, the most instructive and interesting of mo- 
dern compositions. 

Verses lUTitten at Bath, in 1748, onjindcng the Heel of a Shoe. 
Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle Goddess ! thanks I 
Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny, 
She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast 
A treasure in her way ; for neither meed 
Of early breakfast to dispel the fumes, 
And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, 
Nor noon-tide feast, nor evening's cool repast, 
Hopes she from this, presumptuous, tho' perhaps 
The Cobler, leather-carving artist ! might. 
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon 
Whatever, not as erst the fabled Cock, 
Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
Spurn'd the rich gem thou gav'st him. Wlierefore ah! 
Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!) 
Conferr'dst thou. Goddess ! Thou art bUnd, thou say'st: 
Enough ! — Thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 

Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale 
From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here 
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found ; 
Illustrious hints to moralize my song ! 
This pond'rous Heel of perforated hide 
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row. 
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
Upbore: on this supported, oft he stretch 'd. 
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, till cruel time, 
(Wliat will not crael time?) on a wry step, 
Sever'd the strict cohesion: when, alas! 
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, 
Pursue his destin'd way, with symmeti'\ , 
And some proportion form'd, now, on one side, 
purtail'd and maim'd, the sport of \agrant boys, 



14 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! 
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. 
Thus fares it oft with other, than the feet 
Of humble villager — the statesman thus, 
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads. 
Aspiring first, uninterrupted winds 
His prosp'rous way; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
While policy prevails, and friends prove true : 
But that support soon failing, -by him left, 
On whom he most depended, basely left, 
Betray'd, deserted, from his airy height 
Head-long he falls; and through the re?t of life 
Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 

Of a youth, who, in a scene like Bath, could produce such a 
meditation, it might fairly be expected that he would, 

" In riper life, exempt from public haunt. 

Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 

These few words of Shakspeare have often appeared to me as an 
absolute portrait of Cowper, at that happiest period of his days, 
when he exercised and enjoyed his rare poetical powers in privacy, 
at the pleasant village of Weston. But before we contemplate the 
poetical Recluse in that scene, it is the duty of his biographer to 
relate some painful incidents, that led him, by extraordinary steps, 
to his favourite retreat. 

Though extreme diffidence, and a tendency to despond, seemed 
early to preclude Cowper from the expectation of climbing to the 
splendid summit of the profession he had chosen; yet, by the in- 
terest of his family, he had prospects of emolument, in a line of 
public life, that appeared better suited to the modesty of his natui'e, 
and to his moderate ambition. 

In his thirty-first year he was nominated to the offices of reading 
Clerk, and Clerk of the private Committees in the House of Lords. 
A situation the more desirable, as such an establishment might 
enable him to marry early in life; a measure to svhich he was 
doubly disposed by judgment and inclination. But the peculiarities 
of his wonderful mind rendered him unable to support the ordinary 
duties of his new ofnre ; for the idea of reading in public proved a 
source of torture to liis tender and apprehensive spirit. An expe- 
dient was devised to promote his interest, without wounding his 
feelings. Resigning his situation of reading Clerk, he was appointed 



LIFE OF COWPER. 15 

Clferk of the Journals in the same House of Parliament, with a 
hope that his personal appearance in that assembly might not be 
required; but a parliamentary dispute made it necessary for him 
to appear at the bar of the House of Lords to entitle himself pub- 
licly to the office. 

Speaking of this important incident in a sketch, which he once 
formed himself, of passages in his early life, he expresses what 
he endured at the time, in these i-emarkable words : " They whose 
spirits are formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition of them- 
selves is mortal poison, may have some idea of the horrors of my 
situation — others can have none." 

His terrors on this occasion arose to such an astcnishing height, 
that they utterly overwhelmed his reason ; for although he had en- 
deavoured to prepare himself for his public duty, by attending 
closely at the office for several months, to examine the parliamen- 
tary journals, his application was rendered useless by that excess 
of diffidence, which made him conceive that whatever knowledge 
he might previously acquire, it would all forsake him at the bar of 
the House. This distressing apprehension increased to such a de - 
gree, as the time for his appearance approached, that when the day 
so anxiously dreaded arrived, he was unable to make the experi- 
ment. The very friends who called on him for the purpose of at- 
tending him to the House of Lords, acquiesced in the cruel neces- 
sity of his relinquishing the prospect of a station so severely for- 
midable to a frame of such singular sensibility. 

The conflict between the wishes of justaflfectionate ambition and 
the terrors of diffidence, so entirely overwhelmed his health and 
faculties, that after two learned and benevolent Divines (Mr. John 
Cowper, his brother, and the celebrated Mr. Martin Madan, his 
first cousin) had vainly endeavoured to establish a lasting tranquil- 
lity in his mind, by friendly and religious conversation, it was foimd 
necessary to remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided a consi- 
derable time, imderthe care of that eminent physician. Dr. Cotton, 
a scholar and a poet, who added to many accomplishments a pecu- 
liar sweetness of manners, in very advanced life, when I had the 
pleasure of a personal acquaintance with him. 

The misfortune of mental derangement is a topic of such awful 
delicacy, that I consider it as the duty of a biographer rather to 
sink in tender silence, than to proclaim, with circumstantial and 
offensive temerity, the minute particulars of a calamity to which 
all human beings are exposed, and perhaps in proportion as they 
have received from nature those delightful but dangerous gifts, a; 
heart of exquisite tenderness, and a mind of creative encrg>'. 



16 LIFE OF COWPER. 

This is a sight for pity to peruse, 

Till she resembles, faintly, what she views ; 

Till sjmpathy contract a kindred pain, 

Pierc'd with the woes, that she laments in vain* 

This, of all maladies that man infest, 

Claims most compassion, and receives the least* 



But, with a soul that ever felt the sting 
Of sorroAv, sorrow is a sacred thing. 



'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, 
Forg'ry of fancy, and a dream of woes. 
Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight, 
Each yielding harmony, dispos'd aright; 
The screv/s revers'd (a task which, if he please, 
God in a moment executes with ease). 
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose ; 
Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use* 

No womids like those a wounded spirit feels ; 

No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals* 

And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill, 

That yields not to the touch of human skill, 

Improve the kind occasion, understand 

A Father's frown, and kiss the chast'ning hand! 

It is in this awful and instructive hght that Cowper himself 
teaches us to consider the calamity of which I am now speaking, 
and of which he, like his illustrious brother of Parnassus, the 
younger Tasso, Avas occasionally a most affecting example. Heaven 
appears to have given a striking lesson to mankind, to guard both 
virtue and genius against pride of heart, and pride of intellect, by 
thi>s suspending the affections and the talents of two most tender 
and sublime poets, who, in the purity of their lives, and in the 
splendour of their intellectual jjowers, will be ever deservedly 
reckoned among the pre-eminent of the earth. 

From December, 1763, to the following July, the pure mind of 
Cowper appears to have laboured under the severest sufferings ot 
morbid depression ; but the medical skill of Dr. Cotton, and the 
cheerful, benignant manners of that accomplished physician, gra- 
dually succeeded, with the blessing of Heaven, in removing the 
undcscribable load of religious despondency which had clouded the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 17 

admirable feculties of this innocent and upri<5ht man. His ideas 
of religion were cuanged from the gloom of twror and despair to 
the lustre of comfort and delight. 

This juster and happier view of Evangelical tnlth is said to ha\e 
arisen in his mind while he was reading the third chapter of St, 
Paul's Epistle to the Romans. Devout contemplation became more 
and more dear to his reviving spirit: resolving to relinquish ill 
thoughts of a laborious profession, and all ijitercourse with the btisy 
world, he acquiesced in a plan of settling at Huntingdon, by the 
advice of his brother, w)io, as a minister of the Gospel, and a 
Fellow of Bennet College, in Cambridge, resided in that Univer- 
sity ; a situation so near to the place chosen for Cowper's retire- 
ment, that it afforded to these affectionate brothers opportunities of 
easy and frequent intercourse. I regret that all the letters which 
passed between them have perished, and the more so as they some- 
times corresponded in verse. John Cowper was also a poet. He had 
engaged to execute a translation of Voltaire's Henriade ; and, in the 
course of the work, requested aiid obtained the assistar.ce of Wil- 
liam, who translated, as he informed me himself, two entire Cantos 
of the Poem. A specimen of this fraternal production, which ap- 
peared in a Magazine of the year 1759, will be found in the Ap- 
pendix to these volumes. 

In June, 1765, the revi\in'g invalid removed to a private lodging 
in the town of Huntingdon ; but Providence soon introduced him 
into a family wliich afforded him one of the most singular and va- 
luable friends that ever watched an afflicted mortal in seasons of 
overwhelming adversity ; that friend to whom the Poet exclaims, 
in the commencement of tlie Task, 

And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
Wliose arm this twentieth winter, I perceive 
Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure, such as love, 
Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth, 
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire ; 
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long! 
Thou knov/'st my praise of nature most sincere; 
And that my raptures are not conjured up 
To serve occasions of poetic pomp. 
But genuine, and art partner of them all. 

*rhesc verses would be alone sufficient to make eveiy poetical 
reader take a lively interest in the lady they describe ; but these are 
far from being the only tribute wliich tlie gratitude of Cnwper has 
paid to the endearing virtues of his female compajiion. More poe- 

VOL. I. 



1« LIFE OF COWPER. 

tical memorials of her merit will be found in these volmnes, and in 
verse so exquisite, that it may be questioned if the most passionate 
love ever gave rise to poetry more tender or more sublime. 

Yet, in this place, it appears proper to apprize the reader that 
it was not love, in the Common acceptation of the word, which in- 
spired these admirable eulogies. The attachment of Cowper to 
Mrs. Unwin, the Maiy of the Poet i was an attachment perhaps 
unparalleled. Their domestic union, though not sanctioned by the 
common forms of life, was supported with perfect innocence, and 
endeared to them both, by their having struggled together through 
a series of sorrow. "'-A spectator of sensibility, who had contem- 
plated the uncommon tenderness of their attention to the wants and 
infirmities of each other in the decline of life, might have said of 
their singular attachment, 

L'Amour n'a rien de si tendre, 
Ni L'Amitie de si doux. 

As a connection so extraordinary forms a striking feature in the 
history of the Poet, the reader will probably be anxious to inves- 
tigate its origin and progress. It arose from the following little 
incident. 

The coimtenance and deportment of Cowper, though they indi- 
cated his native shjTiess, had yet very singular powers of attrac- 
tion. On his first appearance in one of the churches at Hunting- 
don, he engaged the notice and respect of an amiable young man, 
William Cawthorne Unwin, then a student at Cambridge, who, 
having observed, after divine service, that the interesting stranger 
was taking a solitary turn under a row of trees, was irresistably 
led to share his walk, and to solicit his acquaintance. 

They were soon pleased with each other; and the intelligent 
youth, charmed with the acquiskion of such a friend, was eager to 
communicate the treasure to his parents, who had long resided in 
Huntingdon. 

Mr. Unwin, the father, had, for some years, been master of a 
free-school in the town; but, as he advaiiced in life, he qviittedthat 
laborious situation, and, settling in a large convenient house, in the 
High-Street, contented himself with a few domestic pupils, whom 
he instructed in classical literature. 

This worthy Divine, Avho was now far advanced in years, had 
been Lecturer to the two Churches in Huntingdon, before he ob- 
tained, from his College at Cambridge, the Living of Grimston. 
While he lived in expectation of this preferment, he had attached 
Himself to a young lady of lively talents, and remarkably fond of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 19 

reading. This lady, who, in tlie process of time, and by a series 
of singular events, became the friend and guardian of Cowper, 
.was the daughter of Mr. Cawthorne, a draper in Ely. She was 
married to Mr. Unwin on his succeeding to the preferment that he 
expected from his College, and settled with him on his Living of 
Grimston ; but not liking the situation and society of that seques- 
tered scene, she preA ailed on her husband to establish himself in 
the town of Huntingdon, where lie was known and respected. 

They had resided tliere many years ; and with their two only 
children, a son and a daughter (whom I remember to have noticed 
at Cambridge, in the year 1763, as a youth and a damsel of coun> 
tenances uncommonly pleasing), they formed a cheerful and social 
family, when the younger Unwin, described by Cowper as 

" A friend, 

Whose worth deserves the warmest lay 
That ever friendship penn'd," 

presented to his parents the solitary stranger, on whose retir£.nient 
he had benevolently intruded, and whose welfare he became more 
and more anxious to promote. An event highly pleasing and com- 
fortable to Cowper soon followed this introduction : he was affec- 
tionately solicited by all the Unwins to relinquish his lonely lodging, 
and become a part of their family. 

I am now arrived at that period in the personal history of my 
friend, when I am fortunately enabled to employ his o^vn descriptive 
powers in recording the events and characters that particularly 
interested him, and in displaying the state of his mind at a remark- 
able season of his checkered life. The following are the most 
early Letters of this affectionate writer, with which time and 
chance, with the kindness of his friends and relations, have afforded 
me the advantage of adorning this v/ork. 

Among his juvenile intimates and correspondents he particularly 
regarded two gentlemen, who devoted themselves to different; 
branches of the law, the present Lord Thurlow, and Josepli Hill, 
Esq. whose name appears in the second volume of Cowj^er's Poems, 
prefixed to a few verses of exquisite beauty ; a brief epistle, that 
seems to have more of the genuine case, spirit, and moral gaiety 
of Horace than any original epistle in the English language • From 
these two confidential associates of the Poet, in his unclouded 
years, I expected materials for the display of his early genius; but 
in the torrent of busy and splendid Ufe, which bore the first of 
them to a mighty distance from his less ambitious fellow-student of 



20 LIFE OF COWPER. 

the Temple, the private letters and verses that arose from their 
youthfu] intimacy have perished. 

Mr. Hill has kindly favoured me with a very copious collection 
of Cowj^er's letters to himself, through a long period of time ; and 
although many of them are of a nature not suited to publication, 
yet many others will illustrate and embellish these volumes. The 
steadiness and integrity of Mr. Hill's regard for a person so much 
sequestered from his sight, gives him a peculiar title to stand first 
among those whom Cowper has honoured by addressing to them 
his highly interesting and affectionate letters. Many of these, 
which I shall occasionally introduce in the parts of the narrative to 
which they belong, may tend to confirm a truth, not unpleasing to 
the majority of readers, that the temperate zone of moderate for- 
tune, equally removed from high and low life, is most favourable 
to the permanence of friendship. 



LETTER I. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Cook's Court, Carey-Street, London. 

Huntingdon, June 24, 1765. 
Dear Joe, 

The only recompense I can make you for your 
kind attention to my affairs during my illness, is to tell you that, by 
the mercy of God, I am restored to perfect health both of mind 
and body. This, I believe, will give you pleasure, and I would 
gladly do any thing from which you could receive it. 

I left St. Alban's on the 17th, and arri^'ed that day at Cambridge, 
spent some time there with my brother, and came hither on the 
22d. I have a lodging that puts me continually in mind of our 
summer excursions: we have had many worse, and, except the 
size of it (which, however, is sufficient for a single man), but few 
better. I am not quite alone, having brought a servant with me 
from St. Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidelity and affection 
for his master. And whereas the Turkish Spy says he kept no 
servant, because he would not have an enemy in his house, I hired 
mine because 1 would have a friend. Men do not usually bestow 
these encomiums on their lackeys, )ior do they usually deserve 
them ; but I haAe had experience of mine, both in sickness and in 
health, and never saw his f<?llow. 

The I'iver Ouse, I forget how they spell it, is the most agreeable 
circumstance in this part of the world ; at this town it is, I believe, 
as wide as the Thames at Windsor ; nor does the silver Thames 
better deserve that epithet, nor has it more flowers upon its banks: 



1 



LIFE OF COWPER. 21 

these being attributes which, in strict truth, belong to neither. 
Fiuellin would say they are as like as my lingers to my fingers, 
and there is salmon in both. It is a noble stream to bathe in, and 
I shall make that use of it three times a week, having introduced 
myself to it for the first time this morning. 

I beg you will rememljer me to all my friends, which is a task 
that will cost you no great pains to execute — particularly remember 
me to those of your own house, and believe me 

Your very affectionate 

Wm. COVVPER. 



LETTER II. 
To Major COWPER, at the Park-House, near Hartford. 

Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. 
My dear Major, 

I have neither lost the use of my fingers 
nor my memory, though my unaccountable silence might incline 
you to suspect that I had lost Ijoth. The history of those things 
Avhich have, from time to time, prevented my scribbling, would be 
not onlj' insipid, but extremely voluminous; for which reasons they 
will not make their appearance at present, nor probably at any time 
hereafter. If my neglecting to write to you were a proof that I 
had never thought of you, and that had been really the case, five 
shillings a piece would have I^een much too little to give for the sight 
of such a monster ! but I am no such monster, nor do I percei\ e 
in myself the least tendency to such a transformation. You may 
recollect that I had l)ut very uncomfortable expectations of the ac- 
commodation I should meet with at Huntingdon. How much better 
is it to take our lot, where it shall please Providence to cast it, 
without anxiety ! Had I chosen for myself, it is impossible I could 
have fixt upon a place so agi'eeablc to me in all respects. I so 
nuich dreaded the thought of having a new acquaintance to make, 
with no other recommendation than that of being a perfect stranger, 
that 1 heartily wished no creature here might take the least notice 
of me. Instead of which, in about two months after my arrival, 
I became known to all the visitable people hei'e, and do verily think 
it the most agreeable neighbourhood I ever savv^. 

Here are three families who have received me with the utmost 
civility, and two i i particular have treated me with as much cordi- 
ality as if their pedigree and mine had grown upon tlie same sheep- 
skin. Besides these, there are three or four single men who suit 
my temper to a hair. The to\vn is one of the neatest in England, 
tlie country is fine for several miles about it, and the roads, which 



22 LIFE OF COWPER. 

are all turnpike, and strike out four or five different ways, are 
perfectly good all the year round. I mention this latter circum- 
stance chiefly because my distance from Cambridge has made a 
horseman of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. My bix)thei' 
and I meet every week, by an alternate reciprocation of intercourse, 
as Sam Johnson would express it ; sometimes I get a lift in a neigh- 
bour's chaise, but generally ride. As to my own personal condi- 
tion, I am much happier than the day is long, and sunshine and 
candle-Iight.alike see me perfectly contented. I get books in abun- 
dance, as much company as I choose, a deal of comfortable leisure j 
and enjoy better health, I think, than for many years past. What 
5s there wanting to make me happy ? Nothing, if I can but be as 
thankful as I ought, and I trust that he who has bestowed so many 
blessings ujion me will give me gratitude to crown them all. I beg 
you will give my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to every bodj' 
at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is with you, as I suspect by a pas- 
fiage in Lady Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to her very 
affectionately; and believe me, my dear friend, ever yours, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER III. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

October 25, 1765. 
Dear Joe, 

I am afraid the month of October has pro\ ed 
i-ather unfavourable to the belle assemblee at Southampton, high 
winds and continual rains being bitter enemies to that agreeable 
lounge, which you and I are equall}^ fond of. I have very cordially 
betaken myself to my books and my fire-side, and seldom leave 
them unless merely for exercise. I have added another family to 
the number of those I was acquainted with when you were here. 
Their name is Unwin — the most agreeable people imaginable, quite 
sociable, and as free from the ceremonious civility of country gen- 
tlefolks as any I ever met with. They treat me more like a near 
i-elation than a stranger, and their house is always open to mc. 
The old gentleman carries me to Cambridge in his ch:ii?e. He is 
a man of learning and good sense, and us simple as Parson Adam:;. 
His wife has a verj' uncommon understanding, has read much to 
excellent purpose, and is more polite than a dutchess. The son, 
who belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable young man, and the 
daughter quite of a piece with the rest of the family. They see but 
little company, which suits me exactly ; go when I will, I find a 
house full of peace and cordiality in ail its parts, and am ture tp 



LIFE OF COWTER. 2S 

hear no scandal, but such discourse instead of it as we are all the 
better for. You remember Rousseau's description of an English, 
moming; such are the mornings I spend with these good people, 
and the evenings differ from them in nothing, except that they are 
still more snug and quieter. Now I know them, I wonder that I 
liked Huntingdon so well before I knew them, and am apt to think 
I should find every place disagi-eeable that had not an Unwin be- 
longing to it. 

This incident convinces me of the tnith of an observation I have 
often made, that wlien we circumscribe our estimate of all that is 
clever within the limits of our own acquaintance (which I at least 
have been always apt to do) we are guiltj^ of a very uncharitable 
censure upon the rest of the world, and of a narrowness of thinking 
disgraceful to ourseh-es. Wapping and RedrifF may contain some 
of the most amiable persons living, and such as one would go to 
Wapping and RedrifF to make acquaintance with. You remember 
Mr. Gray's stanza, 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
The deep unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 
Full many a rose is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its fragrance on the desert air. 

Yours, dear Joe, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER IV. 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-Hoi<se, near Hartford. 
Mv DEAR Cousin, 

I am much obliged to you for Pearsall's 
Meditations, especially as it furnishes me with an occasion of writ- 
ing to you, which is all I have waited for. My friends must excuse 
me if I write to none but those who lay it fairly in my way to do so. 
The inference I am apt to dra:w from their silence is, that they 
wish me to be silent too. 

I have great reason, my dear cousin, to be thankful to the graci- 
ous Providence that conducted me to this place. The lady in whose 
house I live is so excellent a person, and regards me with a friend- 
ship so tndy christian, that I could almost fancy my own mother 
restored to life again, to compensate to me for all the friends I have 
lost, and all my connections broken. She has a son at Cambridge, 
in all respects worthy of such a mother, ^he most amiable young 
Tiian I ever knew. His natural and acquired endowments are very 



24 LIFE OF COWPER. 

considci'able ; and as to his virtues, I need only say that he is a 
christian. It ought to be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me that 
I am admitted into the society of such persons, and I pray God to 
make me, and keep me worthy of them. 

Your brother Martin has been vei-y kind to me, having wrote to 
me twice in a stile which, though it once was irksome to me, to say 
the least, I now know how to value. I pray God to forgive me the 
many light things I have both said and thought of him and his la- 
bours. Hereafter I shall consider him as a burning and a shining 
light, and as one of those who, having turned many to righteous- 
ness, shall shine hereafter, as the stars, for ever and ever. 

So much for the state "of my heart; as to my spirits, I am cheer- 
ful and happy, and having peace with God, have peace within 
myself. For the continuance of this blessing I trust to him who 
gives it, and they who trust in him shall never be confounded. 

Yours affectionately, 

Vv M. COWPER. 
Huntingdon, at the Rev. Mr. Unwiii's, March 11, 1766. 



LETTER V. 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 

Jjiril4, 1766. 
My dear Cousin,, 

I agree with you that letters are not essential 
to friendship ; but they seem to be a natural fruit of it when they 
are the only intercourse that can be had. And a friendship pro- 
ducing no sensible effects is so like indifference, that the appear- 
ance may easily deceive even an acute discerner. I retract, how- 
ever, all that I said in my last upon this subject, having reason to 
suspect that it proceeded from a principle which I would discourage 
in myself upon all occasions, even a pride that felt itself hurt upon 
a mere suspicion of neglect. I have so much cause for humility, 
and so much need of it too, and every little sneaking resentment 
is such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall never give quarter to any 
thing that appears in the shape of sullenness or self-consequence 
hereafter. Alas I if my best friend, who laid down his life for me, 
were to remember all the instances in which I have neglected him, 
and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide 
my guilty head in the day of recompense ? I will pray, therefore, 
for blessings upon my ft-icnds, even though they cease to be so, and 
upon my enemies, though they continue such. The deceitfulness 
of the natural heart is inconceivable : I know well that I passed 
upon my friends for a person at least religiously inclined, if not ac- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 25 

tually religious; and what is more wonderful, I thought myself a 
Christian, when I had no faith in Christ, when I saw no beauty in 
him, that I should desire him ; in short, when I had neither faith 
nor love, nor any Christian grace whatever, but a thousand seeds 
of rebellion instead, ever more springing up in enmity against him. 
But blessed be God, even the God who is become my salvation. 
The hail of affliction, and rebuke for sin, has swept away the re- 
fuge of lies. It pleased the Almighty in great mercy to set all my 
misdeeds before me. At length the storm being past, a quiet and 
peaceful serenity of soul succeeded, such as ever attends the gif.s 
of lively faith in the all-sufficient atonement, and the sweet sense 
of mercy and pardon purchased by the blood of Christ. Thus did 
he break me and bind me up ; thus did he wound me, and his hands 
made me whole. My dear cousin, I make no apology for enter- 
taining you with the history of my conversion, because I know you 
to be a Christian in the sterling import of the appellation. This is, 
however, but a very summary account of the matter, neither would 
a letter contain the astonishing particulars of it. If we ever meet 
again in this world, I will relate them to you by word of mouth ; if 
not, they will ser\ e for the subject of a conference in the next ; 
where, I doubt not, I shall remember and record them with a gra- 
titude better suited to the subject. 

Yours, my dear cousin, affectionately, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER VI. 

To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 

Alinl 17, 1766. 
My dear Cousin, 

As in matters unattainable by reason, and 
unrevealed in the Scripture, it is impossible to argue at all ; so in 
matters concerning which reason can only give a probable guess, 
and the Scripture has made no explicit discovery, it is, though not 
impossible to argue at all, yet impossible to argue to any certain 
tonclusion. This seems to me to be the very ca e with the point in 
question — Reason is able to form many plausible conjectures con- 
cerning the possibility of our knowing each other in a future state^ 
and the Scriptui'e has, here and there, favoured us with an expres- 
sion that looks at least like a slight intimation of it ; but becau: e a 
conjecture can never amount to a proof, and a slight intimation 
cannot be construed into a positive asseition, therefore I think we 
tan never come to any absolute conclusion upon the subject. We 
"may, indeed, r&ason about the plausibility of our conjectures, and 

VOL. r, 1, 



26 LIFE OT COWPER. 

^\'e may discuss, with great industry, and shrewdness of argument," 
those passages in the Scriptui-e which seem to favour the opinion ;■ 
but still no certain means havhig been afforded us, no certain end 
can be attained; and after all that can be said, it will still be doubt- 
ful whether we shall know each other or not. 

As to arguments founded upon human reason only, it would be 
easy to muster up a much greater number on the affirmative side 
6f the question than it would be worth my while to write or yours 
to read. Let us see, therefore, what the Scripture says, or seems 
to say, towards the proof of it ; and of this kind of argument also 
I shall insert but a few of those wliich seem to me to be the faii-est 
and clearest for the purpose : for, after all, a disputant on either 
side of this question is in danger of that censure of our blessed 
Lord's, **^Ye do err, not knowing the Scripture, nor the power of 
God." 

As to parables, I know it has been said, in the dispute concern- 
ing the intermediate state, that they are not argumentative ; but 
this having been controverted by very wise and good men, and the 
parable of Dives and Lazarus having been used by such, to prove 
an intermediate state, I see not why it may not be as fairly used for 
the proof of any other matter, which it seems fairly to imply. In 
this parable we see that Dives is represented as knowing Lazarus, 
and Abraham as knowing them botli ; and the discourse between 
them is entirely concerning their respective characters and cir- 
cumstances upon earth. Here, therefore, our Saviour seems to 
countenance the notion of a mutual knowledge and recollection, and 
if a soul that has perished shall know the soul that is saved, surely 
the heirs of salvation shall know and recoUect each other.' 

In the first Epistle to the Thessalonians, the 2d chapter, and 19th 
verse, St. Paul says, " What is our hope, or joy, or crown of re- 
joicing? Arc not even ye in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ 
at his coming? For ye are our glory and our joy." 

As to the hope which the Apostle has formed concerning them, 
he himself refers the accomplishment of it to the coming of Christ, 
meaning that then he should receive the recompense of his labours 
in their behalf: his joy and glory he refers likewise to the same 
period, both which would result from the sight of such numbers 
redeemed by the blessing of God upon his ministration, when he 
should present them before the great Judge, and say in the words 
of a greater than himself, " Lo ! I, and the children whom thou hast 
given me." This seems to imply that the Apostle should know 
the converts, and the converts the Apostle, at least at the day of 
judgment ; and if then, why not afterwards ? 

See also the 4th chapter of that Epistle, 13, 14, 16, which I havft 



LIFE OF COWPER. 27 

not room to transcribe. Here the Apostle comforts them under 
;their affliction, for their deceased bretliren, exhorting them " Not 
to sorrow as without hope:" and what is the hope by which he 
teaches them to support their spirits? Even this, "That them 
which sleep in Jesus sliall God bring with him." In otlier words, 
-and by a fair paraphrase surely, telling them they are only taken 
from them for a season, and that tliey should receive them at the 
resurrection. 

If you can take off the force of tlaese texts, my dear cousin, you 
Avill go a great way towards shaking my opinion ; if not, I tliink 
they must go a great way towards shaking yours. 

The reason why I did not send you my opinion of Pearshall was, 
because I had not then read him. I have read him since, and like 
him much, especially the latter part of him ; but you have Avhetted 
my curiosity to see the last letter by tearing it out. Unless you can 
give me a good reason why I should not see it, I shall inquire for 
the book the next time I go to Cambridge. Perhaps I may be par- 
tial to Hervey for tlie sake of his other Avritings, but I cannot give 
Pearshall the preference to him, for I think him one of the most 
scriptural wi'iters in the world. 

Yours, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER VII. 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 

^firil 18, 1766. 
My dear Cousin, 

Having gone as far as I thought needful to 
justify the opinion of our meeting and knowing each other hereafter, 
I find, upon reflection, that I have done but half my business, and 
that one of the questions you proposed remains entirely unconsi- 
dered, viz. " Wliether the things of our present state will not be 
of too low and mean a nature to engage our thoughts, or make a 
part of our communications in Heaven." 

The common and ordinary occuri'ences of life no doubt, and even 
the ties of kindred, and of all temporal interests, will be entirely 
discarded from amongst that happy society, and possibly e\'en the 
remembrance of them done away. But it does not, therefore, fol- 
low that our spiritual concerns, even in this life, will be forgotten ; 
neither do I tliink that they can ever appear trifling to us in any 
the most distant period of eternitw God, as you say in reference 
to the Scripture, will be all in all. But does not that expression 
jnean, that being admitted to so near an api)roHch to our heavenly 



58 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Father and Redeemer, our whole nature, the soul, and all its facul- 
ties, will be employed in praising and adoring him ? Doubtless, 
however, this will be the case ; and if so, will it not furnish out a 
glorious theme of thanksgiving to recollect " Tiie rock whence w^ 
were hewn, and the hole of the pit whence we \Ycre digged?" To 
recollect the time when our faith, which, under the tuition and nur^ 
ture of the Holy Spirit, has produced such a plentiful harvest of 
immortal bliss, was as a grain of mustard-seed, small in itself, pro- 
mising but little fruit, and producing less ? To recollect the various 
attempts that were made upon it by the world, the flesh, and the 
devil, and its various triumphs over all, by the assistance of God, 
through our Lord Jesus Christ? At present, whatever our convic- 
tions may be of the sinfulness and corruption of our nature, we can 
make but a very imperfect estimate either of our weakness or our 
guilt. Then, no doubt, we shall understand the full value of the 
■wonderful salvation wrought out for us: and it seems reasonable to 
suppose, that, in order to form a just idea of our redemption, we 
shall be able to form a just one of the danger we have escaped ; 
when we know how weak and frail we were, surely we shall be more 
able to render due praise and honour to his strength who fought 
for us ; when we know completely the hatefulness of sin in the sight 
of God, and how deeply we were tainted by it, we shall know how 
to value the blood by which we are cleansed as we ought. The 
twenty-four Elders in the 5th of the Revelations, give glory to God 
for their redemption, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, 
and nation. This surely implies a retrospect to their respective 
conditions upon earth, and that each remembered out of what pai'- 
ticular kindred and nation he had been redeemed ; and if so, then 
surely the minutest circumstance of their redemption did not escape 
their memory. They Avho triumph over the Beast in the 15th 
chapter, sing the Song of Moses, the servant of God : and what was 
that Song? A sublime record of Israel's deliverance, and the de- 
struction of her enemies in the Red-Sea, typical no doubt of the 
Song v/hich the redeemed in Sion shall sing to celebrate their own 
salvation, and the defeat of their spiritual enemies. This again 
implies a recollection of the dangers they had before encountered, 
and the supplies of strength and ardcur they had in every emer- 
gency received from the great Deliverer out of all. These quota- 
tions do not indeed prove that their warfare upon earth includes a 
pail of their converse Avith each other, but they prove that it is a 
theme not unworthy to be heard even before the throne of God, 
and therefrre it cannot be unfit for reciprocal communication. 

But you dnubt whether there is a7iy communication between the 
blessed at all, neitlier do I recollect any Scripture that proves it^ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 29 

or that bears any relation to the subject. But reason seems to re- 
quire it so peremptorily, that a society without social intercourse 
seems to be a solecism, and a contradiction in terms, and the in- 
habitants of those regions are called, you know, in Scripture, an 
innumerable comfiany^ and an assembly^ which seems to convey 
the idea of society as clearly as the word itself. Human testimony 
weighs but little in matters of this sort ; but let it have all the weight 
it can : I know no greater names in divinity than Watts and Dod- 
dridge ; they were both of this opinion, and I send you the words 
of the latter: 

" Our companions in glory may probably assist us by their wise 
and good observations when we come to make the Pro-vidence of 
God, here upon earth, under the guidance and direction of our 
Lord Jesus Christ, the subject of our mutual converse." 

Thus, my dear cousin, I have spread out my reasons be ore you 
for an opinion which, whether admitted or denied, affects not the 
state or interest of our soul: — May our Creator, Redeemer, and 
Sanctifier, conduct us into his own Jerusalem, where there shall be 
no night, neither any darkness at all, where we shall be free even 
from innocent error, and perfect in the light of the knowledge of 
God in the face of Jesus Christ. 

Yours faithfiiUy, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER VIII. 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartfor.d. 

Huntingdon^ Sejit. 3, 1766. 
My dear Cousin, 

It is reckoned, you know, a great achieve- 
ment to silence an opponent in disputation, and your silence was 
of so long continuance, that I might well begin to please myself 
with the apprehension of having accomplished so arduous a matter. 
To be serious, however, I am not sorry that what I have said 
concerning our knowledge of each other in a future state, has a 
little inclined you to the affirmative : For though the redeemed of 
the Lord shall be sure of being as happy in that state as infinite 
power, employed by infinite goodness, can make them, and tliere- 
fore it may seem immaterial whether we shall or shall not recol- 
lect each other hereafter ; yet our present happiness at least is a 
little interested in the question. A parent, a friend, a wife, must 
needs, I think, feel a little heart-ache at the thought of an eteriial 
separation from the objects of her regard : and not to knov/ them 
ivhen she meets them in another life, or never to meet them at iJI, 



so LIFE OF COWPER. 

a'nounts, though not altogether, yet nearly to the same thing. Re- 
member them, I think, she needs must. To hear that they are 
happy will indeed be no small addition to her own felicity; but to 
see them so will surely be a greater. Thus, at least, it appears to 
our present human apprehension ; consequently, therefore, to think 
that when we leave them, we lose them for ever, that we must 
remain eternally ignorant Avhether they that were flesh of our flesh, 
and bone of our bone, partake with us of celestial glory, or are 
disinherited of their heavenly portion, must shed a dismal gloom 
over all our present connections. For my own part, this life is 
such a momentary thing, and all its interests have so shrunk in my 
estimation, since, by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I became 
attentive to the things of another, that, like a worm in the bud of 
all my friendships and affections, this very thought would eat out 
the heart of them all, had I a thousand ; and were their date to 
terminate with this life, I think I should have no inclination to cul- 
tivate and improve such a fugitive business. Yet friendship is ne- 
cessary to our happiness here, and built upon Christian principles, 
upon which on.ly it can stand, is a thing even of religious sanction : 
for what is that love which the Holy Spirit, speaking by St. John, 
so much inculcates, but friendship ? The only love which deserves 
the name ; a love which can toil, and watch, and deny itself, and 
go to death for its brother. Woi-ldly friendships are a poor weed 
compared with this, and even this union of spirit, in the bond of 
peace, would suffer in my mind at least, could I think it were only 
coeval with our earthly mansions. It may possibly argue great 
weakness in me, in this instance, to stand so much in need of future 
Slopes to support me in the discharge of present duty. But so it is: 
I am far, I know, very far, from being perfect in Christian love, 
or any other divine attainment, and am therefore unwilling to 
forego whatever may help me in my progress. 

You are so kind as to inquire after my health, for which reason 
I must tell you, what otherwise would not be worth mentioning, 
that I have lately been just enough indisposed to convince me that 
not only human life in general, but mine in particular, hangs by a 
slender thread. I am stout enough in appearance, yet a little ill- 
ness demolishes me. I have had a severe shake, and the building 
is not so firm as it was. But I bless God for it with all my heart. 
If the inner man be but strengthened day by day, as I liope, undei- 
the renewing influences of the Holy Ghcst, it v/ill be no matter 
how soon the outward is dissolved. He who has in a manner raised 
me from the dead, in a literal sense, has given me the grace, I trust, 
to be ready at the shortest notice, to surrender up to him that life 
vhich I have twice received from him. \\"iether I live or die, J 



LIFE OF COWPER. 31 

desire it may be to his glory, and it must be to my happiness. I 
thank God that I have those amongst my kindred to whom I can 
write without reserve of sentiments upon this subject, as I do to 
you. A letter upon any other subject is more insipid to me than 
ever my task was when a school-boy ; and I say not this in vain 
glory, God forbid ! but to show you what the Almighty, whose name 
I am unworthy to mention, has done for me, the chief of sinners. 
Once he was a terror to me ; and his service, O what a weariness 
it was ! Now I can say I love him and his holy name, and am never 
so happy as when I speak of his mercies to me. 

Yours, dear cousin, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER IX. 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 

Huntingdon, Oct. 20, 1766. 

My dear Cousin, 

I am very sorry for poor Charles's illness, 
and hope you will soon have cause to thank God for his complete 
recovery. We have an epidemical fever in this country likewise, 
AVhich leaves behind it a continual sighing, almost to suffocation ; 
riot that I have seen any instance of it, for blessed be God our fa- 
mily have hitherto escaped it, but such was the account I heard of 
it this morning. 

I am obliged to you for the interest you take in my vv-elfare, and 
for your inquiring so particularly after the manner in which my 
time passes here. As to amusements, I mean what the world calls 
such, we have none : the place indeed swarms with them, and cards 
and dancing are the professed business of almost all the gentle in- 
habitants of Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in them, or to 
be accessaries to this way of murdering our time, and by so doing 
have acquired the name of Methodists. Having told you how we 
do not spend our time, I will next say how wc do. We breakfast 
commonly between eight and nine ; till eleven we read either the 
Scripture, or the sermons of some faithful preacher of these holy 
mysteries: at eleven we attend divine service, which is performed 
liere twice every day ; and from twelve to three we separate, and 
amuse ourselves as we please. During that interval I either read 
in my own apartment, or walk, or ride, or Avork in the garden. 
We seldom sit an hour after dinner, but, if the Aveather permits, 
a<ljourn to the garden, where, with Mrs. Unwin and her son, I 
have generally the pleasure of religious conversation till tea-time. 
If it rains, or is too windy for walking, we either converse within 



52 LIFE OF COWPER. 

doors, or sing some hymns of Martin's collection, and, by the help 
of Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord, make up a tolerable concert, in which 
our hearts, I hope, are the best and most musical performers. 
After tea we sally forth to walk in good earnest. Mrs. Unwin is a 
good walker, and we have generally travelled about four miles be- 
fore we see home again. When the days are short, we make this 
excursion in the former part of the day, between church-time and 
dinner. At night we read and converse as before, till supper, and 
commonly finish the evening either with hyrnns or a sermon ; and, 
last of all, the family are called to prayers. I need not tell you 
that such a life as this is consistent with the utmost cheerfulness, 
accordingly we are all happy, and dwell together in unity as bre- 
thren. Mrs. Unwin has almost a maternal affection for me, and I 
have something very like a filial one for her, and her son and I are 
brothers. Blessed be the God of our salvation for such compa- 
nions, and for such a life ; above all, for an heart to like it. 

I have had many anxious thoughts about taking orders, and I 
believe every new convert is apt to think himself called upon for 
that purpose ; but it has pleased God, by means which there is no 
need to particularize, to give me full satisfaction as to the propriety 
of declining it: indeed, they who have the least idea of what I have 
suffered from the dread of public exhibitions, will readily excuse 
my never attempting them hereafter. In the mean time, if it please 
the Almighty, I may be an instrument of turning many to the truth 
in a private way, and hope that my endeavours in this way have 
not been entirely unsuccessful. Had I the zeal of Moses, I should 
want an Aaron to be my spokesman. 

Yours ever, my dear cousin, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER X. 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 

March 11, 1767. 
My dear Cousin, 

To find those whom I love clearly and strongly 
persuaded of Evangelical truth, gives me a pleasure superior to any 
that this world can afford me. Judge then whether your letter, in 
which the body and substance of a saving faith is so evidently set 
forth, could meet with a lukewarm reception at my hands, or be 
entertained with indifference I Would you know the true reason of 
my long silence ? Conscious that my religious principles are gene- 
rally excepted against, and that the conduct they produce, where- 
ever they are heartily maintained, is still more the object of disap- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 33 

probation than those principles themselves ; and remembering that 
I had made both the one and the ether known to you, without hav- 
ing any clear assurance that our faith in Jesus was of the same 
stamp and character, I could not help thinking it possible that you 
might disapprove both my sentiments and practice ; that you might 
think the one unsupported by Scripture, and the other whimsical 
and unnecessarily strict and rigorous, and, consequently, would be 
rather pleased with the suspension of a correspondence, which a 
different way of thinking upon so momentous a subject as that we 
wrote upon, was likely to render tedious and irksome to you. 

I have told you the truth from my heart ; forgive me these inju- 
rious suspicions, and never imagine that I shall hear fi'om you upon 
this delightful theme without a real joy, or without prayer to God 
to prosper you in the way of his truth, his sanctif}ing and saving 
truth. The book you mention lies noAv upon my table. Marshal 
is an old acquaintance of mine ; I have both read him and heard 
him read with pleasure and edification. The doctrines he maintains 
are, under the influence of the Spirit of Christ, the very life of my 
soul, and the soul of all my happiness ; that Jesus is a present Sa- 
viour from the guilt of sin by his most precious blood, and from the 
power of it by his Spirit ; that corrupt and wretched in ourselves, 
in him, and in him only, we are complete; that being united to 
Jesus by a lively faith, we have a solid and eternal interest in his 
obedience and sufferings, to justify us before the face of our hea- 
venly Father ; and that all this inestimable treasure, the earnest of 
which is in grace, and its consummation in glory, is given, freely 
given to us of God ; in short, that he hath opened the kingdom of 
Heaven to all believers. These are the truths which, by the grace 
of God, shall ever be dearer to me than life itself; shall ever be 
placed next my heart as the throne whereon the Saviour himself 
shall sit, to sway all its motions, and reduce that world of iniquity 
and rebellion to a state of filial and affectionate obedience to the 
will of the most Holy. 

These, my dear cousin, are the truths to which by nature we 
are enemies — they debase the sinner, and exalt the Saviour to a 
degree which the pride of our hearts (till almighty grace subdues 
them) is determined never to allow. May the Almighty reveal his 
Son in our hearts, continually more and more, and teach us to in- 
crease in love towards him continually, for having given us the 
unspeakable riches of Christ. 

Yours faithfully, 

Wm. COWPER. 



VOL. r. 



S^ LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER XL 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 
My dear Cousin, March 14, \7&7m 

I just add a line by way of Postscript to 
my last, to apprize you of the arrival of a very dear friend of 
mine at the Park on Friday next, the son of Mr. Unwin, whom I 
have desired to call on you in his way from London to Huntingdon. 
If you knew him as well as I do, you would love him as much. But 
I leave the young man to speak for himself, which he is very able 
to do. He is ready possessed of an answer to every question you 
can possibly ask concerning me, and knows my whole story^ from 
first to last. I give you this previous notice, because I know you 
are not fond of strange faces, and because I thought it would, ill 
some degree, save him the pain of announcing himself. 

I am become a great florist and shrub doctor. If the Major can 
make up a small packet of seeds that will make a figure in a gar- 
den, where we have little else besides jessamine and honeysuckle ; 
such a packet I mean as may^be put in one's fob, I will promise to 
take great care of them, as I ought to value natives of the Park. 
They must not be such, however, as require great skill in the ma- 
nagement, for at present I have no skill to spare. 

I think Marshal one of the best writers, and the most spiritual 
expositor of Scripture, I ever read. I admire the strength of his 
argument, and the clearness of his reasonings upon those parts of 
our most holy Religion which are generally least understood (even 
by real Christians) as master-pieces of the kind. His section upon 
the union of the soul with Christ is an instance of what I mean, in 
which he has spoken of a most mysterious truth with admirable 
perspicuity, and with great good sense, making it all the while sub- 
servient to his main purport, of proving holiness to be the fruit and 
effect of faith. 

I subjoin thus much upon that author, because, though you de- 
sire my opinion of him, I remember that in my last I rather left 
you to find it out by inference than expressed it as I ought to have 
done. I never met with a man who xmderstood the plan of salva- 
tion better, or was more happy in explaining it. 

LETTER XII. 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 

Huntingdon^ Ajtril 3, 1767* 
My dkar Cousin, 

You sent my friend Unwin home to u» 
charmed with your kind reception of him, and with every thing htr- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 35 

Saw at the Park. Shall I once more give you a peep into my vile 
and deceitful Heart ? What motive do you think lay at the bottom 
of my conduct when I desired him to caU upon you ? I did not sus- 
pect at first that pride and vain-glory had any share in it, but 
quickly after I had recommended the visit to him I discovered in 
that fruitful soil the very root of the matter. You know I am a 
stranger here ; all such are suspected characters, unless they bring 
their credentials with them. To this moment, I believe, it is mat- 
ter of speculation in the place whence I came, and to whom I 
belong. 

Though my friend, you may suppose, before I was admitted an 
•inmate here, was satisfied that I was not a mere vagabond, and 
has since that time received more convincing proofs of my sfionsU 
bilityy yet I could not resist the opportunity of furnishing him with 
ocular demonstration of it, by introducing him to one of my most 
splendid connections; that when he hears me called that felloiv 
Cowfier., which has happened heretofore, he may be able, upon 
'Unquestionable evidence, to assert my gentlemanhood, and relieve 
me from the weight of that opprobrious appellation. Oh Pride, 
Pride ! it deceives with the subtlety of a serpent, and seems to 
walk erect though it crawls upon the earth. How will it twist 
and twine itself about to get from under the Cross, which it is the 
glory of our Christian calling to be able to bear with patience and 
good will. They who can guess at the heart of a stranger, and you 
especially, who are of a compassionate temper, will be more ready 
perhaps to excuse me in this instance than I can be to excuse 
myself. But in good truth it was abominable pride of heart, in- 
dignation and vanity, and deserves no better name. How should 
such a creature be admitted into those pure and sinless mansions 
where nothing shall enter that defileth, did not the Blood of Christ, 
applied by the hand of Faith, take away the guilt of sin, and leave 
no spot or stain behind it ? Oh what continual need have I of an 
Almighty, all-sufficient Saviour ? I am glad you are acquainted so 
particularly with all the circumstances of my story, for I know 
that your secrecy and discretion may be trusted with any thing. 
A thread of mercy rim through all the intricate maze of those 
afflictive providences, so mysterious to myself at the time, and 
which must ever remain so to all who will not see what was tlie 
great design of them : at the judgment scat of Christ the whole 
shall be laid open. How is the rod of iron changed into a sceptre 
of love! 

I thank you for the seeds ; I have committed some of each sort 
to the ground, whence they will soon spring uj) like so many me- 
uicntos to remind me of mv friends at tbs Park, 



36 LIFE OF eOWPEH, 

LETTER XIIL 
To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. 

Huntingdon, July 13, 1767. 
My dear Cousin, 

The newspaper has told you the truth. 
Poor Mr. Unwin, being flung from his horse, as he was going to 
his church on Sunday morning, received a dreadful fracture on the 
back part of his scull, under which he languished till Thursday 
evening, and then died. This awful dispensation has left an im- 
pression on our spirits which will not presently be worn off. He 
died in a poor cottage, to which he was carried immediately after 
his fall, about a mile from home, and his body could not be brought 
to his house till the spirit was gone to him who gave it. May it be 
a lesson, to us to watch, since we know not the day nor the hour 
when oi^r Lord cometh. 

The effect of it upon my circumstances will only be a change of 
the place of my abode : for I shall still, by God's leave, continue 
•with Mrs. Unwin, whose behaviour to me has always been that of 
a mother to a son. We know not yet where we shall settle, but we 
ti'ust that the Lord, whom we seek, will go before us, and prepare 
a rest for us. We have employed our friend Haweis, Dr. Conyers, 
of Helmsley, in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton, of Olney, to look 
out for us, but at present are entirely ignorant under which of the 
three we shall settle, or whether under either. I have ^vrote to 
my aunt Madan to desire Martin to assist us with his inquiries. It 
is probable we shall stay here till Michaelmas. 



LETTER XIV. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

Juhj 16, 1767, 
Dear Joe, 

Your wishes that the newspaper may have mis- 
informed you are vain. Mr. Unwin is dead, and died in the manner 
there mentioned. At nine o'clock on Sunday morning he was in 
perfect health, and as likely to live twenty years as either of us, 
and before ten was stretched speechless and senseless upon a flock- 
bed in a poor cottage, where (it being impossible to remove him) 
he died on Thursday evening. I heard his dying groans, the effect 
of great agony, for he was a strong man, and much convulsed in 
his last moments. The few short intervals of sense that were in- 
dulged him, he spent in earnest prayer, and in expressions of a 
firm trust and confidence in the only Saviour. To that strong hold 



LIFE OF COWPER. 35* 

we must all resort at last, if we would have hope in our death ; 
when every other refuge fails, we are glad to fly to the only shelter, 
to which we can repair to any pui-pose ; and happy is it for us whei> 
the false ground we have chosen for ourselves being broken under 
us, we find ourselves obliged to have recourse to the Rock which 
can never be shaken— when this is our lot, we receive great and 
undeserved mercy. 

Our society will not break up, but we shall settle in some other 
place, where is at present unknown. 

Yours, 

Wm. COWPER. 

These tender and confidential letters describe, in the clearest 
light, the singularly peaceful and devout life of this amiable wri- 
ter during his residence at Huntingdon, and the melancholy acci- 
dent which occasioned his removal to a distant county. Time 
and chance now introduced to the notice of Cowper the zealous 
and venerable friend, who became his intimate associate for many 
years, after having advised and assisted him in the important 
concern of fixing his future residence. Mr. Newton, then Curate 
of Olney, in Buckinghamshire, had been requested, by the late 
Dr. Conyers (who, in taking his degree in Divinity at Cambridge, 
had formed a friendship with young Mr. Unwin, and learned 
from him the religious character of his mother), to seize an op- 
portunity, as he was passing through Huntingdon, of making a 
visit to an exemplary lady. This visit (so important in its conse- 
quences to the destiny of Cowper!) happened to take place within 
a few days after the calamitous death of Mr. Unwin. As a 
change of scene appeared desirable both to Mrs. Unwin and to the 
interesting Recluse, whom she had generously requested to con- 
tinue under her care, Mr. Newton offered to assist them in remov- 
ing to the pleasant and picturesque county in which he resided. 
They were willing to enter into the flock of a benevolent and ani- 
mated pastor, Avhose religious ideas were so much in harmony 
with their own. He engaged for them a house at Olney, where 
they arrived on the 14th of October, 1767. 

The time of Cowper, in his new situation, seems to have been 
chiefly devoted to religious contemplation, to social prayer, and 
to active charity. To this first of Christian virtues his heai't was 
eminently inclined, and Providence very graciously enabled him 
to exercise and enjoy it to an extent far superior to what his own 
scanty fortune appeared to allow. He was very far from inherit- 
ing opulence on the death of his father, in 1756 ; and the singu- 
lar cast of his own mind was such, that nature seemed to have ren- 



38 LIFE OF COWPER. 

dered it impossible for him either to covet or to acquire riches. 
His perfect exemption from worldly passions is forcibly displayed 
in the two following letters. 

LETTER XV. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

Olney, June 16, 1768. 
Dear Joe, 

I thank j^ou for so full an answer to so empty 
an epistle. If Olney furnished any thing for your amusement 
you should have it in return, but occurrences here are as scarce 
as cucumbers at Christmas. 

I \'isited St. Alban's about a fortnight since in person, and I 
visit it every day in thought. The recollection of what passed 
there, and the consequences that followed it, fill my mind con- 
tinually, and make the circumstances of a poor transient half-spent 
life so insipid and unafFecting, that I have no heart to think or 
write much about them. Whether the nation are worshipping 
Mr. Wilkes, or any other idol, is of little moment to one who 
hopes and believes that he shall shortly stand in the presence of 
the great and blessed God. I thank him that he has given me 
such a deep impressed persuasion of this awful truth as a thousand 
worlds would not purchase from me. It gives a relish to every 
blessing, and makes every trouble light. Affectionately yours, 

W. C, 



LETTER XVI. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 
Dear Joe, 1769. 

Sir Thomas crosses the Alps, and Sir Cowper, 
for that is his title at Olney, prefers his home to any other spot 
of earth in the woi-ld. Horace, observing this difference of tem- 
per in different persons, cried out, a good many years ago, in the 
true spirit of poetry, " How much one man differs from another J" 
This does not seem a very sublime exclamation in English, but I 
remember we were taught to admire it in the original. 

My dear friend, I am obliged to you for your invitation ; but 
being long accustomed to retirement, which I was always fond of, 
I am now more than ever unwilling to revisit those noisy and 
crowded scenes v/liich I never loved, and which I now abhor. I 
remember you with all the friendship I ever professed, which is 
as much as I ever entertained for any man. But the strange and 
micomnion incidents of my life have given an entire new tvn-n ^a 



r 



LIFE OF COWPER. S9 

my whole character and conduct, and rendered me incapable of 
receiving pleasure from the same employments and amusements 
of which I could readily partake in former days. 

I love you and yours; I thank you for yourcontmued remem- 
brance of me, and ^all not cease to be their and your 

Affectionate friend and servant, 

W. COWPER. 



His retirement was ennobled by many private acts of benefi- 
cence, and his exemplary virtue was such, that the opulent some- 
times delighted to make him their almoner. In his sequestered 
life at Olney, he ministered abundantly to the wants of the poor, 
from a fund, with which he was supplied by that model of exten- 
sive and unostentatious philanthropy, the late John Thornton, Esq. 
whose name he has immortalized in his Poem on Charity, still ho- 
nouring his memory by an additional tribute to his virtues, in the 
following unpublished Poem, written immediately on his decease, 
in the year 1790. 

Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
Praising the author of all good in man ; 
And next commemorating worthies lost, 
The dead, in whom that good abounded most. 

Thee therefore of commercial fame, but more 
Fam'd for thy probity, from shore to shore ; 
Tliee, Thornton, worthy in some page to shine 
As honest, and more eloquent than mine, 
I mourn ; or since thrice happy thou must be, 
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee ; 
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; 
It were to weep, that goodness has its meed, 
Tliat there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
And gloiy for the virtuous, when they die. 

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, 
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford. 
Sweet, as the privilege of healing woe 
Suffer'd by virtue, combating below ? 
That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee means 
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
Till thy appearance chas'd the gloom, forlorn 
As midnight), and despairing of a morn. 



*0 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Thou had'st an industry in doing good. 

Restless as his, who toils and sweats for food. 

A V 'rice in thee was the desire of wealth 

By rust unperishable, or by stealth. 

And if the genuine worth of gold depend •> 

On application to its noblest end, 

Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, 

Surpassing all, that mine or mint had given : 

And though God made thee of a nature prone 

To distribution, boundless of thy own. 

And still, by motives of religious force, 

Impell'd thee more to that heroic course; 

Yet was thy liberality discreet ; 

Nice in its choice, and of a temp'rate heat ; 

And though in act unwearied, secret still, 

As, in some solitude, the summer rill 

Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green. 

And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. 

Such was thy Charity ; no sudden start, 
After long sleep of passion in the heart, 
But steadfast principle, and in its kind 
Of close alliance with th' eternal mind ; 
Trac'd easily to its true source above, 
To him, whose works bespeak his nature, love. 
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; 
That the incredulous themselves may see 
Its use and power exemplified in thee. 

Tliis simple and sublime eulogy was perfectly merited ; and 
among the happiest actions of this truly liberal man, we may 
I'eckon his furnishing to a character so reserved, and so retired 
as Cowper, the means of his enjoying the gratification of active 
and costly beneficence ; a gratification, in which the sequestered 
Poet had nobly indulged himself before his acquaintance with Mr. 
Newton afforded him an opportunity of being concerned in distri- 
buting the private, yet extensive bounty of an opulent and exem- 
plary merchant. 

Cowper, before he quitted St. Alban's, assumed the charge of a 
necessitous child ; to extricate him from the perils of being edu- 
cated by very profligate pai-ents, he put him to school at Hunting- 
don, removed him on his own removal to OIney, and finally 
settled him as an apprentice in St. Alban's. 



LIFE OF COWPER. , 41 

The warm, benevolent, and cheerful enthusiasm of Mr. Newton 
induced his friend Cowper to participate so abundantly in his de- 
vout occupation, that the Poet's time and thoughts were more and 
more engrossed by religious pursuits. He ^vi'ote many hymns, 
and occasionally directed the prayers of the poor. Where the 
nerves are tender, and the imagination tremblingly alive, any little 
excess, in the exercise of the purest piety, may be attended with 
such perils to corporeal and mental health, as men of a more firm 
and hardy fibre would be far from apprehending. Perhaps the 
life that Cowper led, on his settling in Olney, had a tendency to 
increase the morbid propensity of his frame, though it was a life 
of admirable sanctity. 

Absorbed as he was in devotion, he forgot not his distant 
friends, and particularly his amiable relation and correspondent 
of the Park-House, near Hartford. The following letter to that 
lady has no date, but it was probably written soon after his esta- 
blishment at Olney. The remarkable memento in the postscript 
"was undoubtedly introduced to counteract an idle rumour, arising 
from the circumstance of his having settled himself under the roof 
of a female friend, whose age, and whose virtues, he considered as 
sufficient securities to ensure her reputation. 

LETTER XVn. 
To Mrs. COWPER. 
My dear Cousin, 

I have not been behind-hand in reproach- 
ing myself with neglect, but desire to take shame to myself for my 
unprofitableness in this, as well as in aU other respects. I take 
the next immediate opportunity however of thanking you for 
yours, and of assuring you that instead of being surprized at your 
silence, I rather wonder that you, or any of my friends, have any 
room left for so careless and negligent a correspondent in your 
memories. I am obliged to you for the intelligence you send me of 
my kindred, and rejoice to hear of their welfare. He who settles 
the bounds of our habitations has at length cast our lot at a gi'eat 
distance from each other ; but I do not therefore forget their former 
kindness to me, or cease to be interested in their well-being. You 
live in the centre of a world I know you do not delight in. Happy 
are you, my dear friend, in being able to discern the insufficiency 
of all it can afford to fill and satisfy the desires of an immortal 
sold. That God who created us for the enjoyment of himself, has 
determined, in mercy, that it shall fail us here, in order that the 
blessed result of all our inquiries after happiness in the creature 
may be a warm pursuit, and a close attachment to our true in- 

VOL. I. G 



42 LIFE OF COWPER. 

terest, in fellowship and communion with him, through the name 
and mediation of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness and grace 
that I have any reason to hope I am a partaker with you in the de- 
sire after better things than are to be found in a world polluted 
with sin, and therefore devoted to destruction. May he enable us 
both to consider our present life in its only true light, as an oppor- 
tunity put into our hands to glorify him amongst men, by a conduct 
suited to his word and will. I am miserably defective in this holy 
and blessed art ; but I hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful 
infirmities, a sincere desire to live just so long as I maybe enabled, 
in some poor measure, to answer the end of my existence in this 
respect, and then to obey the summons, and attend him in a world 
where they who are his servants here shall pay him an unsinful 
obedience for ever. Your dear mother is too good to me, and puts 
a more charitable construction upon my silence than the fact will 
warrant. I am not better employed than I should be in corres- 
ponding with her. I have that within which hinders me wretch- 
edly in every thing that I ought to do, but is prone to trifle, and 
let time and every good thing run to waste. I hope, however, to 
write to her soon. 

My love and best wishes attend Mr. Cowper, and all that in-, 
quire after me. May God be with you, to bless you, and do you 
good by all his dispensations : don't forget me when you are speak- 
ing to our best Friend before his mercy-seat. 

Yours ever, 

W. COWPER. 

N. B. I am not married. 

In the year 1769 the Lady to whom the preceding letters are 
addressed was invohed in domestic affliction ; and the following, 
which the Poet wrote to her on the occasion, is so full of genuine 
piety and true pathos, that it would be an injury to his memory 
to suppress it. 

LETTER XVIII. 

Olney, Aug, 31, 1769, 
To Mrs. COWPER. 
Dear Cousin, 

A letter from your brother Frederick brought 
me yesterday the most afflicting intelligence that has reached me 
these many years. I pray to God to comfort you, and to enable 
you to sustain this heavy stroke with that resignation to his will 
which none but himself can give, and which he gives to none but 
his own children. How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear 



LIFE OF COWPER. 45 

friend, beyond the common lot of the gi'eater part of mankind, 
tjiat vou know what it is to draw near to God in prayer, and are 
acquainted witli a Throne of Grace I You have resources in the 
infinite love of a dear Redeemer, which are withheld from mil- 
lions ; and the promises of God, which are yea and amen in Jesus, 
are sufficient to answer all your necessities, and to sweeten the 
bitterest cup which your heavenly Father will ever put into youf 
hand. May he now give you liberty to drink at these wells of sal* 
vation, till you are filled with consolation and peace in the midst 
of trouble. He has said, when thou passest through the fire, I will 
be with thee, and when through the floods, they shall not overflow 
thee. You have need of such a word as this, and he knows your 
need of it, and the time of necessity is the time when he will be 
sure to appear in behalf of those who trust him. I bear you and 
vours upon my heart before him night and day, for I never expect 
to hear of a distress which shall call upon me with a louder voice 
to pray for the sufferer. I know the Lord hears me for myself, 
vile and sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that he will 
liear me for you also. He is the friend of the widow, and the fa- 
tlier of the fatherless, even God in his holy habitation ; in all our 
afflictions he is afflicted, and chastens us in mercy. Surely he 
will sanctify this dispensation to you, do you gi'eat and everlasting 
good by it, make the world appear like dust and vanity in your 
sight, as it truly is, and open to your view the glories of a better 
comitry, where there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor 
pain, but God shall wipe away all tears from your eyes for ever. 
Oh that comfortable word ! "I have chosen thee in the furnaces 
of affliction ;" so that our very sorrows are evidences of our calling, 
and he chastens us because we are his children. 

My dear cousin, I commit you to the word of his gi'ace, and to 
the coi^iforts of his Holy Spirit. Your life is needful for your fa- 
mily ; may God in mercy to them prolong it, and may he pi-eserve 
you from the dangerous effects which a stroke like this might have 
upon a frame so tender as yours. I grieve with you — I pray for 
you — could I do more I would, but God must comfort you. 
Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, 

\y. COWTER. 



In the following year the tender feelings of Cowpcr were 
called forth by family affliction, that pressed more immediately on 
himself; he was hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous illness of 
his brother, then residing as a Fellow in Bennet College. An af- 
fection truly fraternal had ever subsisted between the brothers, 



44 LIFE OF COWPER. 

and the readei* will recollect what the Poet has said in one of his 
letters concerning their social intercourse while he resided at 
Huntingdon. 

In the two first years of his residence at Olney, he had been i*e- 
peatedly visited by Mr. John Co^vper ; and how cordially he re- 
turned his kindness and his attention the following letter will tes- 
tify, which was probably written in the chamber of the invalid, 
whom the writer so fervently wished to restore. 

LETTER XIX. 
To Mrs. COWPER. 

March 5, 17/0. 
My brother continues much as he was. His case 
is a very dangerous one ; an imposthume of the liver, attended 
by an asthma and dropsy. The Physician has little hope of his 
recovery ; I believe I might say none at all, only being a friend, 
he does not formally give him over by ceasing to visit him, lest it 
should sink his spirits. For my OAvn part I have no expectation of 
his recovery, except by a signal interposition of Providence in an- 
swer to prayer. His case is clearly out of the reach of medicine ; 
but I have seen many a sickness healed, where the danger has 
been equally threatening, by the only Physician of value. I doubt 
not he will have an interest in your prayers, as he has in the 
prayers of many. May the Lord incline his ear, and give an an- 
swer of peace. I know it is good to be afflicted. I trust that you 
have found it so, and that under the teaching of God's own Spirit 

we shall both be purified. -It is the desire of my soul to seek a 

better country, where God shall wipe away all tears from the 
eyes of his people, and where, looking back upon the ways by 
which he has led us, we shall be filled with everlasting wonder, 
love and praise. I must add no moi-e. 

Yours ever, 

W. COWPER, 



The sickness and death of his learned, pious, and affectionate 
brother, made a very strong impression on the tender heart and 
mind of Cowper — -an impression so strong that it induced him to 
write a narrative of the remarkable circumstances which occurred 
at the time. He sent a copy of this narrative to Mr. Newton. 
The paper is curious in every point of view, and so likely to 
awaken sentiments of piety in minds where it may be most desira- 
ble to have them awakened, that Mr. Newton has thought it liis 
duty to print it. 



' LIFE OF COWT>ER. 45 

Here it is incumbent on me to introduce a brief accovmt of tlie 
interesting person whom the Poet regarded so tenderly. John 
Cowper was born in 1737 ; being designed for the Church, he was 
privately educated by a Clerg}Tnan, and became eminent for the 
extent and variety of his erudition in the University of Cambridge. 
His conduct and sentiments, as a Minister of the Gospel, are copi- 
ously displayed by his brother, in recording tlie remarkable close 
of his life. Bennet College, of which he was a Fellow, was his 
usual residence, and it became the scene of his death, on the 20th 
of March, 1770. Fraternal affection has executed a perfectly just 
and graceful description of his character, both in prose and verse. 
I transcribe both, as highly honourable to these exemplary brethren, 
who may indeed be said to have dwelt together in unity. 

" He was a man," says the Poet in speaking of his deceased 
Li'other, " of a most candid and ingenuous spirit ; liis temper re- 
markably sweet, and in his behav^iour to me he had always mani- 
fested an uncommon affection. His outward conduct, so far as it 
fell under my notice, or I could learn it by the report of others, was 
perfectly decent and unblameable. There was nothing vicious in 
any part of his practice ; but being of a studious, thoughtful turn, 
he placed his chief delight in the acquisition of learning, and 
made such acquisitions in it, that he had but few rivals in that of 
a classical kind. He was critically skilled in the Latin, Gi'eek, 
and Hebrew languages ; was beginning to make himself master 
of the Syriac, and perfectly understood the French and Italian ; 
the latter of which he could speak fluently. Learned, hov/evei, 
«s he was, he was easy and cheerful in his conversation, and en- 
tirel)' free from the stiffiiess which is generally contracted b)" men 
devoted to such pursuits." 

I had a brother once : 
Peace to the memory of a man of worth I 
A man of letters, and of manners too ! 
Of manners sweet as virtue always wears 
W'lien gay good humour dresses her in smiles I 
He grac'd a College, in which order yet 
Was sacred, and was honour'd, lov'd, and v/ept 
By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. 

Another interesting tribute to his memory will Vic found in 
the following letter. 



46 LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER XX. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

May 8, 1770, 
Dear Joe, 

Your letter did not reach me till the last post, 

when I had not time to answer it. I left Cambridge immediately 

after my brother's death. ,, ' 

I am obliged to you for the particular account you have sent 

He to whom I have surrendered myself and all my concerns, has 
otherwise appointed, and let his will be done. He gives me much, 
which he withholds from others ; and if he was pleased to withhold 
all that makes an outward difference between me and the poor 
mendicant in the street, it would still become me to say, his will 
be done. 

It pleased God to cut short my brother's connections and ex- 
pectations here, yet not without giving him lively and glorious views 
of a better happiness than any he could propose to himself in such 
a world as this. Notwithstanding his great learning (for he was 
one of the chief men in the University in that respect) he was can- 
did and sincere in his inquiries after truth. Though he could not 
come into my sentiments when I first acquainted him with them, 
nor in the many conversations which I afterwards had with him 
upon the subject, could he be brought to acquiesce in them as scrip- 
tural and true, yet I had no sooner left St. Alban's than he began 
to study with the deepest attention those points in which we dif- 
fered, and to furnish himself with the best writers upon them. His 
mind was kept open to conviction for five years, during all which 
time he laboured in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, as lei- 
sure and opportunity were afforded. Amongst his dying words 
■were these, " Brother, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to believe 
as you did. 1 found myself not able to believe, yet always thought 
I should one day be brought to do so." From the study of books 
he was brought, upon his death-bed, to the study of himself, and 
there learnt to renounce his righteousness, and his own most ami- 
able character, and to submit himself to the righteousness which 
is of God by faith. With these views he was desirous of death. 
Satisfied of his interest in the blessing purchased by the blood of 
Christ, he prayed for deatli with earnestness, felt the approaches 
of it with joy, aiKl died in peace. 

Yours, my dear friend, 

W. COWPER, 



I 



LIFE OF COWPER. 47 

The exquisite sensibility of Cowper could not fail to suffer deeply 
on the loss of such a brother ; but it is the peculiar blessing of a 
religious turn of mind, that it serves as an antidote against the cor- 
rosive influence of sorrow. Devotion, if it had no other beneficial 
effect on the human character, would be still inestimable to man, 
as a medicine for the anguish he feels in losing tlie objects of his 
affection. How far it proved so in the present case the reader will 
be enabled to judge by a letter, in which Cowper describes his sen- 
sations on this awfiil event to one of his favourite correspondents^ 

LETTER XXL 
To Mrs. COWPER, Holies-Street, Cavendish-Square. 

Olneyt June 7, \770» 
Dear Cousin, 

I am obliged to you for sometimes thinking of 
an unseen friend, and bestowing a letter upon me. It gives me 
pleasure to hear from you, especially to find that our gracious Lord 
enables you to weather out tlie storms you meet with, and to cast 
anchor Avithin the veil. 

You judge rightly of the manner in which I have been affected 
by the Lord's late dispensation towards my brother. I found in it 
cause of sorrow, that I lost so near a relation, and one so deserv- 
edly dear to me, and that he left me just when our sentiments upon 
the most interesting subject became the same; but much more 
cause of joy, that it pleased God to give me clear and evident 
proof that he had changed his heart, and adopted him into the 
number of his children. For this I hold myself peculiarly bound 
to thank him, because he might have done all that he was pleased 
to do for him, and yet have afforded him neither strength nor op- 
portunity to declare it. I doubt not that he enhghtens tlie under- 
standings, and works a gracious change in the hearts of many in 
their last moments, whose surrounding friends are not made ac- 
quainted with it. 

He told me, that from the time he was first ordained he began 
to be dissatisfied with his religious opinions, and to suspect that 
there were greater things concealed in the Bible than were gene- 
rally believed or allowed to be there. From the time when I first 
visited him after my release from St. Alban's, he began to read 
upon the subject. It was at that time I informed him of the views 
of divine truth which I had received in that school of affliction. 
He laid what I said to heart, and begim to furnish himself witli the 
best writers on the controverted points, whose works he read witli 
great diligence and attention, comparing them all the wliile with 
the Scripture. None e\er truly and ingenuously sought the truth 



48 LIFE OF COWPER. 

but they found it. A spirit of earnest inquiry is the gift of God, 
who never says to any, seek ye my face in vain. Accordingly, 
about ten days before his death, it pleased the Lord to dispel all 
his doubts, to reveal in his heail the knowledge of the Saviour, 
and to give him firm and unshaken peace in the belief of his ability 
and willingness to save. As to the affair of the fortune-teller, he 
never mentioned it to me, nor was there any such paper found as 
you mention. I looked over all his papers before I left the place, 
and, had there been such a one, must have discovered it. I have 
heard the report from other quarters, but no other particulars than 
that the woman foretold him when he should die. I suppose there 
may be some truth in the matter ; but whatever he might think of 
it before his knowledge of the truth, and however extraordinary 
her predictions might really be, I am satisfied that he had then re- 
ceived far other views of the wisdom and majesty of God than to 
suppose that he would entrust his secret counsels to a vagrant, who 
did not mean, I suppose, to be understood to have received her in« 
telligence from the Fountain of Light, but thought herself suffici- 
ently honoured by any who would give her credit for a secret inter- 
course of this kind with the Prince of Darkness. 

Mrs. Unwin is much obliged to you for your kind inquiry after 
her. She is well, I thank God, as usual, and sends her respects to 
you. Her son is in the ministry, and has the Living of Stock, in 
Essex. We were last week alarmed with an account of his being 
dangerously ill. Mrs. Unwin went to see him, and in a few days 
left him out of danger. 



The letters of the afflicted Poet to this amiable and sympathetic 
relation have already afforded to my reader an insight into the 
pure recesses of Cowper's wonderful mind at some remarkable 
periods of his life, and if my reader's opinion of these letters is 
consonant to my own, he will feel concerned, as I do, to find a 
cliasm of ten years in this valuable correspondence ; the more so, 
as it was chiefly occasioned by a new, a long, and severe visitation 
of that mental malady, which periodically involved in calamitous 
oppression the superior faculties of this interesting sufferer. His 
extreme depression seems not to have recurred immediately on the 
sliock of his brother's death. In the autumn of the year in which 
he sustained that affecting loss, he wrote the following serious but 
?inimated letter to Mr. Hill. 



LIFE OF COWPER. A9 

LETTER XXII. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 
Dear Joe, Sept. 25, 1770, 

I have not done convei'sing with terrestial objects, 
though I should be happy were I able to hold more continual con- 
verse with a friend above the skies. He has my heart, but he allows 
a corner in it for all who show me kindness, and therefore one for 
you. The storm of '63 made a wreck of the friendships I had con- 
tracted in the course of many years, yours excepted, which has 
survived the tempest. 

I thank you for your repeated invitation. Singular thanks are 
due to you for so singular an instance of your regard. I could not 
leave Olney unless in a case of absolute necessity, without much 
inconvenience to myself and others. 



In his sequestered life he seems to have been much consoled and 
entertained by the society of his pious friend, Mr. Newton, in whose 
religious pursuits he appears to have taken an active part, by the 
composition of sixty-eight hymns. Mr. Newton wished and ex- 
pected him to have contributed a much larger number, as he has 
declared in the preface to that collection of hymns which contains 
these devotional effusions of Cowper distinguished by the initial 
letter of his name. The volume composed for the inhabitants of 
Olney was the joint production of the Divine and the Poet, and in- 
tended, as the former expressly says in his Preface, " as a monu- 
ment to perpetuate the remembrance of an intimate and endeared 
friendship. With this pleasing view," continues Mr. Newton, " I 
entered upon my part, which would have been smaller than it is, 
and the book would have appeared much sooner, and in a very dif- 
ferent form, if the wise though mysterious Providence of God had 
not seen fit to cross my wishes. We had not proceeded far upon 
our proposed plan, before my dear friend was prevented, by a long 
and affecting indisposition, from affording me any further assist- 
ance." The severe illness of the Poet, to which these expressions 
relate, began in 1773, and extended beyond the date of the Preface 
(from which they are quoted), February 15, 1779. 

These social labours of the Poet with an exemplary man of God, 
for the puT'pose of promoting simple piety among the lower classes 
of the people, must have been delightful, in a high degree, to the 
benevolent heart of Cowper ; and I am persuaded he alludes to his 
own feelings on this subject in the following passage from his 
Poem on Conversation. 

VOL. I. H 



50 LIFE OF COWPER. 

True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd 

Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd ; 

And, farewell else all hope of pure delight I 

Those hearts should be I'eclaim'd, renew'd, upright: 

Bad men, profaning friendship's hallowed name, 

Form in its stead a covenant of shame : 

****** 

But souls that carry on a blest exchange 

Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range. 

And with a fearless confidence make known 

The sorrows sympathy esteems its own ; 

Daily derive increasing light and force 

From such communion, in their pleasant course; 

Feel less the journey's roughness, and its lengthy 

Meet their opposers with united strength, 

And one in heart, in interest, and design. 

Gird up each otlier to the race divine. 

Such fellowship in literary labour, for the noblest of purposes,- 
must be delightful indeed, if attended with success, and, at all 
events, it is entitled to respect : yet it may be doubted if the intense 
zeal with which Cowper embarked in this fascinating pursuit, had 
not a dangerous tendency to undermine his very delicate health. 

Such an apprehension naturally ai'ises from a recollection of 
what medical writers of great ability have said en the awful sub- 
ject of mental derangement. Whenever the slightest tendency to 
that misfortune appears, it seems expedient to guard a tender spirit 
from the attractions of Piety herself. So fearfully and wonderfully 
are we made, that man, in all conditions, ought, perhaps, to pray 
that he never may be led to think of his Creator and of his Re- 
deemer either too little or too much. 

But if the charitable and religious zeal of the Poet led him into 
any excesses of devotion, injurious to the extreme delicacy of his 
nervous system, he is only the more entitled to admiration and to 
pity : indeed, his genius, his virtues, and his misfortunes were cal- 
culated to excite those tender and temperate passions in their purest 
state, and to the highest degree. It may be questioned K any 
mortal could be more sincerely beloved and revered Ihap Cowper 
was by those who were best acquainted with his private hours. 

The season was now arrived when the firm friendship of Mrs. 
ITnAvin was put to the severest of trials, and when her conduct was 
such as to deserve those rare rewards of grateful attention and ten- 
derness, which, when she herself became the victim cf age and 



LIFE OF COWPER. 51 

infirmity, she received from that exemplary being, who considered 
himself indebted to her friendly vigilance for his life, and who never 
forgot an obligation when his mind was itself. 

In 1773 he sunk into such severe paroxysms of religious despon- 
dency, that he required an attendant of the most gentle, vigilant, 
and inflexible spirit. Such an attendant he found in that faithful 
guardian whom he had professed to love as a mother, and wlio 
watched over him, during this long fit of depressive malady, ex- 
tended through several years, with that perfect mixture of tender- 
ness and fortitude which constitutes the inestimable influence of ma- 
ternal protection. I wish to pass rapidly over this calamitous 
period, and shall only observe, that nothing could surpass the suf- 
ferings of the patient, or the care of his nurse. That meritorious 
care received from Heaven the most delightful of rewards, in 
seeing the pure and powerful mind, to whose restoration it had con- 
tributed so much, not only gradually restored to the common enjoy- 
ments of life, but successively endowed with new and marvellous 
funds of diversified talents, and courageous application. 

The spirit of Cowper emerged, by slow degrees, from its veiy 
deep dejection ; and before his mind was sufficiently recovered to 
employ itself on literary composition, it sought, and found, much 
salutary amusement in educating a little group of tame Haves. 
On his expressing a wish to divert himself by rearing a single Le- 
veret, the good-nature of his neighbours supplied him with three. 
Tlie variety of their dispositions became a source of great entertain- 
ment to his compassionate and contemplative spirit. One of the 
trio he has celebrated in the Task; and a very animated minute 
account of this singular family humanized, and described most ad- 
mirably by himself, in prose, appeared first in the Gentleman's 
Magazine, and has been recently inserted in the second volume of 
his Poems. These interesting animals had not only the honour of 
being cherished and celebrated by a poet, but the pencil has also 
contributed to their renown ; and their portraits, engraved from 
a drawing presented to Gowper by a friend unknown, may serve 
as a little embellishment to this life of their singularly tender and 
benevolent protector. 

His three tame Hares, Mrs. Unv^'in, and Mr. Newton, were, 
for a considerable time, the only companions of Cowper ; but as 
Mr. Newton was removed to a distance from his afllicted friend, 
by preferment in London, to which he was presented by that libe- 
ral encourager of active piety, Mr. Thornton, the friendly Divine, 
before he left Olney, in 1780, humanely triumphed over the strong 
reluctance of Cowper to see a stranger, and kindly introduced him 
to the regard and good offices of the Rev. Mr. Bulh of Ne\vportr 



52 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Pagnell, who, from that time, considering it as a duty to visit the 
invalid once a fortnight, acquired, by degrees, his cordial and 
confidential esteem. 

The affectionate temper of Cowper inclined him particularly to 
exert his talents, at the request of his friends, even in seasons when 
such exertion could hardly have been made without a painful de- 
gree of self-command. 

At the suggestion of Mr. Newton we have seen him writing a 
series of hymns : at the request of Mr. Bull he translated several 
spiritual songs from the mystical poetry of Madame de la Mothe 
Guyon, the tender and fanciful enthusiast of France, whose talents 
and misfortunes drew upon her a long series of persecution from 
many acrimonious bigots, and secured to her tlie friendship of the 
mild and indulgent Fenelon ! 

We shall perceive, as we advance, that the greater works of 
Cowper were also written at the express desire of persons whom 
he particularly regarded ; and it may be remarked, to the honoui; 
of friendship, that he considered its influence as the happiest in- 
spiration ; ca', to use his own expressive words, 

The Poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 

Should be the Poet's heart : 
Affection lights a brighter flame 

Than ever blaz'd by art. 

The poetry of Cowper is itself an admirable illustration of this 
maxim ; and perhaps the maxim may point to the prime source 
of that uncommon force and felicity with which this most feeling 
poet commands the affection of his reader. 

In delineating the life of an author, it seems the duty of bio- 
graphy to indicate the degree of influence which the warmth of 
his heart produced on the fertility of his mind. But those mingled 
flames of friendship and poetry which were to burst forth with 
the most powerful effect in the compositions of Cowper, were not 
yet kindled. His depressive malady had suspended the exercise 
of his genius for several years, and precluded him from renewing 
his correspondence with the relation whom he so coi-dially re- 
garded, in Hartfordshire, except by the brief letters on pecuniary 
concerns, in 1779. But in the spring of the following year, a let- 
ter to Mr. Hill abimdantly proves that he had regained the free 
©xprcise of his talents, both serious and sportive. 



LIFE OF CO\\T*ER, aS 

LETTER XXIII. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

Olncy, May 6, 1780. 
Mt dear Friend, 

I am much obliged to you for your speedy 
answer to my queries. I know less of the law than a countrj- at- 
torney, yet sometimes I think I have almost as much business. 
My former connection with the profession lias got wind, and 
though I earnestly profess, and protest, and proclaim it abroad, 
that I know nothing of the matter, they cannot be persuaded to be- 
lieve that a head once endued with a legal perriwig can ever be 
deficient in those natural endowments it is supposed to cover. I 
have had the good fortune to be once or twice in the right, which, 
added to the cheapness of a gratuitous counsel, has ad\'anced my 
credit to a degree I never expected to attain in the capacity of a 
Lawyer. Indeed, if two of the wisest in the science of jurispru- 
dence may give opposite opinions upon the same point, which does 
not unfrequently happen, it seems to be a matter of indifference 
whether a man answers by rule or at a venture. He that stumbles 
upon the right side of the question is just as useful to his client as 
he that arrives at the same end by regular approaches, and is con- 
ducted to the mark he aims at by the greatest authorities. 

********** 

These violent attacks of a distemper, so often fatal, are very 
alarming to all who esteem and respect the Chancellor as he de- 
serves. A life of confinement, and of anxious attention to impor- 
tant objects, where the habit is bilious to such a teri'ible degree, 
threatens to be but a short one ; and I wish he may not lie made a 
text for men of reflection to moralize upon, affording a conspi- 
cuous instance of the transient and fading nature of all human ac- 
complishments and attainments. 

Yours affectionately, 

W. COWTER. 



At this time his attention was irresistably recalled to his cou- 
sin, Mrs. Cowper, by hearing that she was deeply afflicted ; and 
he wrote to her the following letter on the loss of her brothi^r, 
Frederick Madan, a soldier, who died in An.erica, after ha\ ing 
distinguished himself by poetical talents, as well as b/ militar/ 
rirtues. 



54 LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER XXIV. 
To Mrs. COWPER. 
My dear Cousin, May 10, 1/80. 

I do not write to comfort you; that 
office is not likely to be Avell performed by one who has no comfort 
for himself; nor to comply with an impertinent ceremony, Avhich, 
in general, might well be spared upon such occasions ; but because 
I would not seem indifferent to the concerns of those I have so 
much reason to esteem and love. If I did not sorrow for your 
brother's death, I should expect that nobody would for mine : when 
I knew him he was much beloved, and I doubt not continued to be 
so. To live and die together is the lot of a few happy families, 
who hardly know what a separation means, and one sepulchre 
serves them all ; but the ashes of our kindred are dispersed in- 
deed. Whether the American gulf has swallowed up any other 
of my relations I know not; it has made many mourners. 

Believe me, my dear cousin, though after long silence, which 
perhaps nothing less than the present concern could have prevailed 
^'ith me to interrupt, as much as ever, 

Your affectionate kinsman, 

W. C. 



The next letter to Mr. Hill affords a striking proof of Cowper's 
compassionate feelings towards the poor around him. 

LETTER XXV. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 
Hon Ami, July 8, 178C, 

If ever you take the tip of the Chancellor's ear 
between your finger and thumb, you can hardly improve the op- 
portunity to better purpose, than if you should whisper into it the 
voice of compassion and lenity to the lace-makers. I am an eye 
■witness of their poverty, and do know, that hundreds in this little 
town are upon the point of starving, and that the most unremit- 
ting industry is but barely sufficient to keep them from it. I know 
that the bill by which they would have been so fatally affected is 
thrown out; but Lord Stormont threatens them with another; and 
if another like it should pass, they are undone. We lately sent a 
petition from hence to Lord Dartmouth ; I signed it, and am sure 
the contents are true. The purport of it was to inform him that 
there are very near one thousand two hundred lace-makers in this 
beggarly town, the most of whom had reason enough, while the bill 



LIFE OF COWPER. 5S 

•was in agitation, to look upon every loaf they bought as the last 
they should ever be able to earn. I can never think it good policy 
to incur the certain inconvenience of ruining thirty thousand, in 
order to prevent a remote and possible damage, though to a much 
greater number. The measure is like a scythe, and the poor lace- 
makers are the sickly crop that trembles before the edge of it. 
The prospect of peace with America is like the streak of dawn in 
their horizon ; but this bill is like a black cloud behiad it, that 
threatens their hope of a comfortable day with utter extinction. 

I did not perceive till this moment that I had tacked two simi- 
lies together, a practice, which, though warranted by the example 
of Homer, and allowable in an epic poem, is rather luxuriant and 
licentious in a letter ; lest I should add another, I conclude. 



His affectionate effort in renewing his correspondence with Mrs. 
Co\vper, to whom he had been accustomed to pour forth his heart 
without reserve, appears to have had a beneficial effect on his re- 
viving spirits. This pathetic letter was followed, in the course of 
two months, by a letter of a more lively cast, in which the reader 
will find some touches of his native humour, and a vein of plea- 
santry peculiar to himself. 

LETTER XXVL 
To Mrs COWPER, Park-Street, Grosvenor-Square. 
Mv DEAR Cousin, July 20, 1*80. 

Mr. Newton having desired me to be of 
the party, I am come to meet him. You see me sixteen years 
older, at the least, than when I saw you last ; but the effects of 
tirne seem to have taken place rather on the outside of my head 
than within it. "VV'liat was brown is become grey, but what was 
foolish remains foolish still. Green fruit must rot befoi-e it ripens, 
if the season is such as to afford it nothing but cold winds and dark 
clouds, that interrupt every ray of sunshine. My days steal away 
silently, and march on (as poor mad King Lear would have made 
his soldiers march) as if they were shod with felt ; not so silently 
but that I hear them ; yet were it not that I am always listening to 
their flight, having no infirmity that I had not when I was much 
younger, I should deceive myself with an imagination that I am 
still young. 

I am fond of writing, as an amusement, but I do not always find 
it one. Being rather scantily furnished with subjects that are good 
Cor any thing, and corresponding only with those who have no 
relish for such as are good for nothing, I often find myself reduced 



&6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

to the necessity, the disagreeable necessity, of writing about mys61f< 
This does not mend the matter much, for though in a description 
of my own condition, I discover ab\indant materials to employ my 
pen upon, yet as the task is not very agreeable to me, so I am suf- 
ficiently aware, that it is likely to prove irksome to others. A 
painter who should confine himself, in the exercise of his art, to 
the drawing of his own picture, must be a wonderful coxcomb, 
if he did not soon grow sick of his occupation, and be peculiarly 
fortunate, if he did not make others as sick as himself. 

Remote as your dwelling is from the late scene of riot and con- 
fusion, I hope that though you could not but hear the report, yoil 
heard no more, and that the roarings of the mad multitude did 
not reach you. That was a day of terror to the innocent, and the 
preselit is a day of still greater terror to the guilty. The law was 
for a few moments like an arrow in the quiver, seemed to be of no 
use, and did no execution ; now it is an arrow upon the string, and 
many who despised it lately, are trembling as they stand before 
the point of it. 

I have talked more already than I have formerly done in three 
visits ; you remember my taciturnity, never to be forgotten by 
those v/ho knew me ; not to depai't entirely from what might be^ 
for aught I know, the most shining part of my character. I here: 
shut my mouth, make my bow, and return to Olncy. 

W. C. 

The next is a little more serious than its predecessor, yet 
equally a proof that the affections of his heart, and the energy of 
his mind, were now happily restored. 

I>ETTER XXVIT. 

To Mrs. COWPER, Park-Street, Grosvenor-Square. 
My dear Cousin, August 31, \780. 

J am obliged to you for your long letter, 
wliich did not seem so, and for your short one, which was more 
than I had reason to expect. Short as it was, it conveyed to me 
tv/o intei-esting articles of intelligence. An account of your reco- 
vering from a fever, and of Lady Cov^per's death. The latter 
was, I suppose, to be expected, for by what remembrance I have 
of her Ladyship, who was never much acquainted with her, sh<^' 
had reached those years that are always found upon the border*" 
of another world. As for you, your time of life is comparatively 
of a } oulhful date. You may think of rieath as much as you please 
(you cannot think of it too much), but I hope you will live to think 
of it many vears. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 5" 

It costs me not much difficulty to suppose that my friends, who 
Xere already grown old, when I saw them last, are old still ; but 
it costs me a good deal sometimes to think of those who were at 
that time young, as being older than they were. Not having been 
an eye witness of the change that time has made in them, and my 
former idea of them not being corrected by observation, it remains 
the same ; my memory presents me with this image unimpaired, 
and while it retains the resemblance of what they were, forgets that 
by this time the picture may have lost much of its likeness, through 
the alteration that succeeding years have made in the original. I 
know not what impressions time may have made upon your per- 
son ; for while his clav/s (as our Grannams called them) strike deep 
furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath them with much ten- 
derness, as. if fearfiil of doing injury to others. But though an 
enemy to the person, he is a finend to the mind, and you have 
found him so. Though even in this respect his treatment of us de-^ 
pends upon Avhat he meets with at our hands ; if we use him Avell, 
and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend indeed, but otherwise 
the worst of enemies, who takes from us daily something that we 
valued, and gives us nothing better in its stead. It is well wich 
them, who, like you, can stand a tip-toe on the mountain top o£ 
human life, look do^vn with pleasure upon the valley they have 
passed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a 
happy flight into eternity. Yet a little while and your hope will 
be accomplished. 

Wlien you can favour me with a little account of your own fa- 
mily without inconvenience, I shall be glad to receive it; for 
though separated from my kindred by little more than half a cen- 
tury of miles, I know as little of their concerns as if oceans and 
continents wei*e interposed between us. 

Yours, my dear cousin, 

Wm. C0\VPER. 

The following letter to Mr. Hill contains a poem already 
printed in the works of Cowper, but the reader will probably bo 
gratified in finding a I ittle favourite piece of pleasantry introduced 
to him, as it v/as originally dispatched by the author for the 
amusement of a friend. 

LETTER XXVm. 

To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

My dear Friend, Dec. 25, 17Z0» 

Weary with rather a longw^alk in the snow, 
I am not likely to write a very sprightly letter, or to produce any 

VOL. I. I 



58 LIFE OF COWPER. 

thing that may cheer this gloomy season, unless I have recourse to 
my pocket-book, where, perhaps, I may find something to tran^ 
scribe ; something that was written before the Sun had taken leave 
- of our hemisphere, and when I was less fatigued than I am at 
present. 

Happy is the man who knows just so much of the law as to 
make himself a little merry now and then with the solemnity of 
juridical proceedings. I have heard of common law judgments 
before now, indeed have been present at the delivery of some, that, 
according to my poor apprehension, while they paid the utmost re*, 
spect to the letter of a statute, have departed widely from the 
spirit of it, and, being governed entirely by the point of law, have 
left equity, reason, and common sense behind them at an infinite 
distance. You will judge whether the following report of a case, 
drawn up by myself, be not a proof and illustration of this sa- 
tirical assertion. 

NOSE, Plahitlf— EYES, Defendants. 

1. 
Between Nose and Eyes a sad contest arose, 
The Spectacles set them unhappily wi'ong, 
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
To which the said Spectacles ought to belong. 

2. 
So the Tongue was the Lawj^er, and argued the cause 
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning, 
While chief Baron Ear, sat to balance the laws, 
So fam'd for his talents at nicely discerning. 

3. 
In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, 
And your Lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, 
That the Nose has had Spectacles always in Avear, 
Which amounts to possession, time out of mind. 

4.- 
Then holding the Spectacles up to the Court, 
Your Lordship observes they are made with a straddle 
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is, in short, 
Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

5. 
Again would your Lordship a moment suppose, 
(Tis a case ths,t has happen'd, and may be again) 
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
Pray who would, or >Yho could, wear Spectacles then ? 



I;IFE OF COWPER. 59 

6. 
On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, 
With a reasoning the Court will never condemn, 
That the Spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 

7. 
Then shifting his side, as a Law}^er knows how, 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 
But what were his arguments few people know, 
For the Coui-t did not think they were equally wise. 

8. 
So h-s Lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone. 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but^ 
That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on, 
jBy day-light, or candle-light — Eyes should be shut ! 
Yours ciffectionately, 

W. COWPER. 



LETTER XXIX. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

Feb. 15, 178L 
My dear Friend, 

I am glad you were pleased with my report of 
so extraordinary a case. If the thought of versifying the decisions 
of our Courts of Justice had struck me, while I had the honour 
to attend them, it would perhaps have been no difficult matter 
to have compiled a volume of such amusing and interesting prece- 
dents, which, if they wanted the eloquence of the Greek or Roman 
oratory, would have amply compensated that deficiency by the 
harmony of rhyme and metre. 

Your account of my uncle and your mother gave me great plea- 
sure. I have long been afraid to inquire after some in whose wel- 
fare I always feel myself interested, lest the question should pro- 
tluce a painful answer. Longe^'ity is the lot of so few, and is so 
seldom rendered comfortable by the associations of good health and 
good spirits, that I could not very reasonabl}' suppose either your 
relations or mine so happy in those respects as it seems they are. 
May they continue to enjoy those blessings so long as the date of 
life shall last. I do not think that in these coster-monger daj s, as 
I have a notion FalstafF calls them, an antediluvian age is at aU a 
desirable tiling ; but to live comfortably, while we do li^^e, is a great 
jnatter, and comprehends in it every thing that can be wished for 
^on this side the curtain that hangs bet^vcen Time and Eternit}-. 



60 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Farewell my better friend than any I have to boast of eith^i:: 
among the Lords or Gentlemen of the House of Commons. 

Yours ever, 

Wm. COWPER. 

The reviving Poet, who had lived half a century with such a mo- 
dest idea of his own extraordinary talents, that he had hitherto 
given no composition professedly to the public, now amused himself 
with preparations to appear as an author. But he hoped to con- 
duct those preparations with a modest secrecy, and was astonished 
to find one of his intimate friends apprized of his design. 

LETTER XXX. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

May 9, 1781. 
MvDEAR Sir, 

I am in the press, and it is in vain to deny it. 
But how mysterious is the conveyance of intelligence from one end 
to the other of your great cit) !— Not many days since, except one 
man, and he but little taller than yourself, all London was ignorant 
of it ; for I do not suppose that the public prints have yet announced 
the most agreeable tidings, the title-page, which is the basis of th^ 
advertisement, having so lately reached the publisher ; and now it 
is known to you, who live at least two miles distant from my confi-. 
dant upon the occasion. 

My labours are principally the production of the last winter ; all 
indeed, except a few of the mhior pieces. When I can find no 
other occupation, I think ; ai d when I think, I am very apt to do 
it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass that the season of the year 
which generally pinches off the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, 
such as they are, and crowns me with a winter garland. In this 
respect, therefore, I and my cotemporary Bards are by no means 
upon a par. They write when the delightful influences of fine 
weather, fine prospects, and a brisk motion of the animal spirits 
make poetry almost the language of nature : and I, when icicles 
depend from all the leaves of the Parnassian laurel, and when a 
reasonable man would as little expect to succeed in verse as to hear 
a black-bird whistle. This must be my apology to you for whatever 
want of fire and animation you may observe in what you will shortly 
have the perusal of. As to the public, if they like me not, there 
is no remedy. A friend will weigh and consider all disadvantages, 
and make as large allowances as an author can wish, and larger 
perhaps than he has any right to expect ; but not so the world at 
large J whatever they do not like, they will not by any apology be 



I 



LIFE OF COWPER. ci 

persuaded to forgive, and it would be in vain to tcU t/iem that I 
wrote my verses in January, for they would immediately reply, 
" why did not you write them in May ?" A question tliat might 
puzzle a wiser head than we Poets are generally blessed with. 



^ was informed by Mrs. Unwin that she strongly solicited hcT 
friend to devote his thoughts to Poetry, of considerable extent, on 
his recovery from his very long fit of mental dejection, suggesting 
to him, at the same time, the first subject of his song, " The pro- 
gi'ees of Error I" which the reader will recollect as the second poem 
in his first volume. The time when that volume was completed, 
and the motives of its excellent author for giving it to the world, 
are clearly displayed in the follov/ing very interesting letter to liis 
fair poetical cousin. 

LETTER XXXL 
To Mrs. COWPER. 

October 19, 1781. 
My dear Cousin, 

Your fear lest I should think you unwor- 
thy of my correspondence on account of your delay to answer, may 
change sides now, and more properly belongs to me. It is long 
since I received your last, and yet I believe I can say truly that 
not a post has gine by me since the receipt of it, that has not re- 
minded me of the debt I owe you for your obliging and unreserved 
communications, both in prose and verse, especially for the latter, 
because I consider them as marks of your peculiar confidence. 
The truth is, I have been such a verse-maker myself, and so busy 
in preparing a volume for the pi'ess, which I imagine will make 
its appearance in the course of the winter, that I hardly had lei- 
sure to listen to the calls of any other engagement. It is, however, 
finished, and gone to the printer's, and I have nothing now to do 
with it, but to correct the sheets as they are sent to me, and 
consign it over to the judgment of the public. It is a bold un- 
dertaking at this time of day, when so many Avriters of the greatest 
abilities have gone before, who seem to have anticipated every 
valuable subject, as well as all the graces of poetical embellish- 
ment, to step forth into the world in the character of a bard, 
especially when it is considered that luxury, idleness, and vice 
have debauched the public taste, and that nothing hardly is wel- 
come, but childish fiction, or what has at least a tendency to excite 
a laugh. I thought, however, that I had stumbled upon some sub- 
jects that lip.d never before been poetically treated, and upon some 
ethers, to whicii I imagined it would not be difficult to gi\-e an air 



Bt LIFE OF COWPER. 

of novelty, by the manner ^of treating them. My sole drift is to be 
Useful ; a point which, however, I knew I should in vain aim at, 
unless I could be likewise entertaining. I have, therefore, fixed 
these two strings upon my bow, and by the help of both have done my 
best to send my arrow to the mark. My readers will hardly have 
begun to laugh, before they will be called upon to correct that le- 
vity, and peruse me with a more serious air. As to the effect, I 
leave it alone in his hands who can alone produce it; neither prose 
nor verse can reform the manners of a dissolute age, much less 
tan they inspire a sense of religious obligation, unless assisted and 
made efficacious by the power who superintends the truth he has 
vouchsafed to impart. 

You made my heart ache with a sympathetic sorrow, when you 
described the state of your mind on occasion of your late visit into 
Ilartfordshire. Had I been previously informed of your journey 
before you made it, I should have been able to have foretold all 
your feelings v/ith the most unerring certainty of prediction. You 
Will r.ever cease to feel upon that subject ; but with your principles 
of resignation and acquiescence in the divine will, you will always 
feel as becomes a Christian. We are forbidden to murmur, but 
we are not forbidden to regret; and whom we loved tenderly while 
living, we may still pursue with an affectionate remembrance, 
■without having any occasion to charge ourselves with rebellion 
against the So-\-ereignt)' that appointed a separation. A day is 
coming, when I am confident you will see and know that mercy 
lo both parties was the principal agent in a scene, the recollection 
of which is still painful. 

Those who read what the Poet has here said of his intended pub- 
lication, may perhaps think it strange that it was introduced to 
the world with a preface not written by himself, but by his friend, 
Mr. Newton. The circumstance is singular ; but it arose from 
two amiable peculiarities in the character of Cowper, his extreme 
diffidence in regard to himself, and his kind eagerness to gratify 
tlie affectionate ambition of a friend, whom he tenderly esteemed! 
Mr. Newton has avowed the fervency of this ambition in a very 
ingenuous and manly manner ; and tliey must have little candour, 
indeed, who are disposed to cavil at his alacrity in presenting him- 
self to the public as the liosom friend of that incomparable author 
whom he had attended so faithfully in sickness and in sorrow ! — I 
hope it is no sin to covet honour as the friend of Cowper, for if it 
Is, I fear I may say but too truly in the words of Shakspeare, 

" I am the most oiFending scul alive^" 



LIFE OF COWPER. 63 

Happy, however, if I may be able so to conduct and finish thia 
biographical compilation, that those who knew and loved him best 
may be the most willing to applaud me as his friend ; a title that 
my heart prefers to all other distinction ! 

The immediate success of his first volume was very far from 
being equal to its extraordinary merit. For some time it seemed 
to be neglected by the public, and although the first poem in the 
collection contains such a powerful image of its author, as might 
be thought sufficient not only to excite attention, but to secure at- 
tachment : for Cowper had undesignedly executed a masterly por- 
trait of himself, in describing the true poet : I allude to the fol- 
lowing verses in " Table Talk." 

Nature, exerting an unwearied power. 

Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower ; 

Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 

The dancing Naiads through the dewy^ meads : 

She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 

With music, modulating all their notes ; 

And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknovyii. 

With artless airs, and concerts of her o^vn : 

But seldom (as if fearful of expense) 

Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — 

Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, 

Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought j 

Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky 

Brings colours, dipt in Heaven, that never die ; 

A soul exalted above earth, a mind 

Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; 

And, as the Sun, in rising beauty drest. 

Looks from the dappled orient to the West, 

And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 

Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close ; 

An eye like his to catch the distant goal, 

Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll. 

Like his to shed illuminating rays 

On every Scene and subject it surveys : 

Thus grac'd the man asserts a poet's name, 

And the world cheerfiilly admits the claiiiu 

The concluding lines may be considered as an omen of that ce- 
lebrity, which such a writer, in the process of time, could not 
fail to obtain. Yet powerful as the claims of Cowper were to in- 
stant admiration and applause, it must be allowed (us an apology. 



64 LIFE OF COWPER. 

for the inattention of the pubUc) that he hazarded some sentiments 
in his first volume which were very iikely to obstruct its immediate 
success in the world. I particularly allude to his bold eulogy on 
Whitfield, whom the dramatic satire of Foote, in his Comedy of 
the Minor, had taught the nation to deride as a mischievous fa- 
natic. I allude also to a little acrimonious censure, in which he 
had indulged himself, agahist one of Whitfield's devout rivals, Mr. 
Charles Wesley, for allowing sacred music to form a part of his 
occupation on a Sunday evening. Such praise, and such repi'oof, 
bestowed on popular enthusiasts, might easily induce many care- 
less readers, unacquainted with the singular mildness and purity of 
character that really belonged to the new Poet, to reject his book, 
without giving it a fair perusal, as the production of a recluse, in- 
flamed with the fierce spirit of bigotry. No supposition could have 
been wider from the truth ; for Cowper was indeed a rare example 
of true Christian benevolence : yet, as the best of men have their 
little occasional foibles, he allowed himself, sometimes with his pen, 
but never, I believe, in conversation, to speak rather acrimoniously 
of several pursuits and pastimes, that seem not to deserve any 
austerity of reproof. Of this he was aware himself, and con- 
fessed it, in the most ingenuous manner, on the following occasion. 
One of his intimate friends had written, in the first volume of his 
Poems, the following passage from the j'^ounger Pliny, as descrip- 
tive of the Book : " Multa temiiter, multa sublhiuter^ multa ve- 
nuste^ -multa tenere^ multa dulciter^ multa cuin bile," Many 
passages are delicate, many sublime, many beautiful, many 
tender, many sweet, many acrimonious. 

Cowper was pleased with the application, and said, with the ut- 
most candour and sincerity, " The latter partis very true indeed ; 
yes! yes! there are " multa cum bile," many acrimonious. 

These little occasional touches of austerity would naturall}'^ arise 
in a life so sequestered ; but how just a subject of surprize and 
admiration is it, to behold an author stai*ting under such a load of 
disadvantages, and displaying, on the sudden, such a variety of 
excellence ! For, neglected as it was for a few years, the first vo- 
lume of Cowper exhibits such a diversity of poetical powers, as 
have been given very rarely indeed to any individual of the modern 
or of the ancient world. He is not only great in passages of pathos 
and sublimity, but he is equally admirable in wit and humour. 
After descanting most copiously on sacred subjects, with the anima- 
tion of a Prophet, and the simplicity of an Apostle, he paints the 
ludicrous characters of common life with the comic force of Mo- 
licre ; particularly in his Poem on Conversation, and his exquisite 
portrait of a fretful temper: apiece of moi'al painting so highly 



LIFE OF COWPER. Co 

finished, and so happily calculated to promote good humour, that 
k transcript of the verses shall close the first part of these Me- 
moirs. 

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch j 
You always do too little or too much : 
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain ; 
Your elevated voice goes through the brain : 
You fall at once into a lower key ; 
That's worse : — ^the drone-pipe of an humble Bee! 
The Southern sash admits too strong a light ; 
You rise and drop the curtain : — now its night. 
He shakes with cold ; — you stir the fire, and sti'ive 
To make a blaze: — that's roasting him alive. 
Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses Fish; 
With soal — that's just the sort he would not wish. 
He takes what he at first profess'd to loath; 
And in due time feeds heartily on both : 
Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown; 
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
Himself should work that wonder, if he can. 
Alas I his efforts double his distress ; 
He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
Thus always teazing others, always teaz'd. 
His 0}ily pleasure is — to be displeas'd. 



END OF THE FIRST PART. 



VOL. I. 



THE 

LIFE OF COWPER. 

PART THE SECOND. 



A NEW sera opens in the history of the Poet, from an incident 
that gave fresh ardour and vivacity to his fertile imagination. In 
September, 1781, he happened to form an acquaintance with a lady, 
highly accomplished herself, arid singularly happy in animating 
and directing the fancy of her poetical friends. The world will 
perfectly agree with me in this eulogy, when I add, that to this 
lady we are primarily indebted for the Poem of the Task, for the 
Ballad of John Gilpin, and for the Translation of Homer. But in 
my lively sense of her merit, I am almost forgetting my immediate 
duty, as the Biographer of the Poet, to introduce her circumstan- 
tially to the acquaintance of my Reader. 

A lady, whose name was Jones, was orie of the few neighbours 
admitted in the residence of the retired Poet. She was the wife of 
a Clergyman, who resided at the village of Clifton, within a mile 
of Olney. Her sister, the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, 
came to pass some time with her in the Autumn of 1781 ; and as 
the two ladies chanced to call at a shop in Olney, opposite to the 
house of Mrs. Unwin, Cowper observed them from his window.^ 
Although naturally shy, and now rendered more so by his very long 
illness, he was so struck with tl\e appearance of the stranger, that 
on hearing she was sister to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwin 
to invite them to tea. So strong was liis reluctance to admit the 
company of strangers, that after he had occasioned this invitation, 
he was for a long time unwilling to join the little party; but 
having forced himself at last to engage in conversation with Lady 
Austen, he was so reanimated by her uncommon colloquial talents, 
that he attended the Ladies on their return to Clifton, and from 
that time continued to cultivate the regard of his new acquaintance 
with such assiduous attention, that she soon received from him the 
familiar and endearuig title of Sister Ann. 



65 LIFE OF COWPER. 

The grieat and happy influence which an incident, that seen<s 
at first sight so trivial, produced very rapidly on the imagination 
of Cowper, will best appear from the following Epistle, which, 
soon after Lady Austen's return to London for the winter, the Poet 
addressed to her, on the irth of December, 1781. 

Dear Anna — Between friend and friend, ^^j 

Prose answers every common end ; ^1 

Serves, in a plain, and homely way, 
T' express th' occurrence of the day ; 
Our health, the weather, and the news ; 
What walks we take, what books we choose j 
And all the floating thoughts, we find 
Upon the surface of the mind. 

But when a Poet takes the pen, 
Far more alive than other men, 
He feels a gentle tingling come 
Down to his finger and his thumb, 
Deriv'd from nature's noblest part. 
The centre of a glowing heart ! 
And this is what the world, who knows 
No flights above the pitch of prose, ^ 

His more sublime vagaries slighting, 
Denominates an itch for writing. 
Ko wonder I, who scribble rhyme, 
To catch the triflers of the time. 
And tell them truths divine and clear, 
Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear , 
Who labour hard to allure, and draw 
The loiterers I never saw, 
Should feel that itching, and that tinglmg, 
With all my purpose intermingling, 
To your intrinsic merit true. 
When call'd to address myself to you. 

Mysterious are his ways, whose power: 
Brings forth that unexjjected hour. 
When minds that never met before. 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is th' allotment of the skies. 
The Hand of the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
And plans and orders our connections j 



LIFE OF COWTER. 69 

Directs us in our distant road, 
And marks the Ijounds of our abode. 
Thus we were settled when you found us, 
Peasants and children all around us, 
Not dreaming of so dear a friend, 
' Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.* 

Thus Martha, even against her will, 
Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
And you, though you must needs prefer 
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,t 
Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
A cottage on the Banks of Ouse. 
This page of Providence quite new, 
And now just opening to our view, 
Employs our present thoughts and pains, 
To guess, and spell, what it contains: 
But day by day, and year by year, 
Will make the dark acnigma clear ; 
And furnish us, perhaps, at last, 
Like other scenes already past, 
With proof, that we and our affairs 
Are pai't of a Jehovah's cares: 
For God unfolds, by slow degrees, 
The purport of his deep decrees ; 
Sheds every hour a clearer light 
In aid of our defective sight; 
And spreads at length, before the soul, 
A beautiful and perfect whole, 
WHiich busy man's inventive brain 
Toils to anticipate in vain. 

Say, Anna, had you never known 
The beauties of a Rose full blown. 
Could you, though luminous your eye, 
By looking on the liud, descry, 
Or guess, with a prophetic pow^r. 
The future splendour of the flower ? 
Just so th' Onmipotent, who turns 
The system of a world's concerns, 
From mere minutiae can educe 
Events of most important use, 

• An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence of Co.vpcf, which faced lUe 
r.mrkct-place. 

+ Lady Austen's res'^ence in Frsuce. 



70 LIFE OF COWPER. 

And bid a dawning sky display 

^he blaze of a meridian day. 

The works of man tend, one and all, 

As needs they must, from great to small j 

And vanity absorbs at length 

The monuments of human strength. 

But who can tell how vast the plan 

Wliich this day's incident began ? 

'Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion 

For our dim-sighted observation ; 

It pass'd unnotic'd, as the bird 

That cleaves the yielding air Imheard, 

And yet may prove, when understoodj 

An harbinger of endless good. 

Not that I deem, or mean to call, 
Friendship a blessing cheap or small ; 
But merely to remark, that ours, 
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers. 
Rose from a seed of tiny size. 
That seem'd to promise no such prize: 
A transieht visit intervening. 
And made almost without a meaning, 
(Hardly the effect of inclination. 
Much less of pleasing expectation!) 
Produc'd a friendship, then begim, 
That has cemented us in one ; 
And plac'd it in our power to prove, 
By long fidelity and love. 
That Solomon has wisely spoken : 
" A three-fold cord is not soon broken." 

in this interesting Poem the Author expi'esses a lively and devottt 
|)resage of the superior productions that were to arise, in the pro- 
Cess of time, from a friendship so unexpected, and so pleasing; 
but he does not seem to have been aware, in the slightest degree^ 
of the evident dangers that must naturally attend an intimacy so 
very close, yet perfectly innocent, between a Poet and two Ladies^ 
■<vho, with very different mental powers, had each reason to flatter 
herself that she could agreeably promote the studies, and animate 
the fancy of this fascinating Bard. 

Genius of the most exquisite kind is sometimes, and perhaps 
generally, so modest and diffident, as to requii'e continual solici- 
tation and encouragement from the voice of sympathy and friend- 



LIFE OF COWPER, 7t 

ship, to lead it into permanent and successful exertion. Such was 
the genius of Cowper ; and he therefore considered the cheerful 
and animating society of his new accomplished friend, as a bless- 
ing conferred on him by the signal favour of Providence. She re- 
turned the following summer to the house of her sister, situated on 
the brow of a hill, the foot of which is washed by the River Ouse, 
as it flows between Clifton and Olney. Her benevolent ingenuity 
was exerted to guard the spirits of Cowper from sinking again into 
that hypochondriacal dejection to which, even in her company, he 
still sometimes discovered an alarming tendency. To promote his 
occupation and amusement, she furnished him with a small porta- 
ble printing-press, and he gratefully sent her the following verses, 
printed by himself, and enclosed in a billet, that alludes to the occa- 
sion on which they were composed — a very unseasonable flood, that 
ioterrupted the communication between Clifton and Olney, 

To watch the storms, and hear the sky 
Give all our Almanacks the lie ; 
To shake with cold, and see the plains 
In Autumn drown 'd with Wintry rains ; 
'Tis thus I spend my moments here, 
And wish myself a Dutch M}Tiheer j 
I then should have no need of wit 
For lumpish Hollander unfit '. 
Nor should I then repine at mud, 
Or meadows delug'd by a flood ; 
But in a bog live well content, 
And find it just my element ; 
. ShoiUd be a clod, and not a man, 
Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann, 
With charitable aid to drag 
My mind out of its proper quag ; 
Should have the genius of a boor, 
And no ambition to hav^ njore. 

My dear Sister, 

You see my beginning — I do not knovy 
but in time I may proceed even to the printing of halfpenny Bal- 
lads — Excuse the coarseness of my paper — I wasted such a quan- 
tity before I could accomplish any thing legible, that I could not 
afford finer. I intend to employ an ingenious mechanic of the 
town to make me a longer case : for you may observe, that my lines 
turn up their tails like Dutch mastiffs, so difficult do I find it to 
»jake the two halves exactly coincide with each other. 



♦^ LIFE OF COWPER; 

We wait with impatience for the departure of this unseasonable 
flood — We think of you, and talk of you, but we can do no more, 
till the waters sliall subside. I do not think our coiTespondence 
should drop because we are within a mile of each other. It is but 
an imaginary approximation, the flood having in reality as effectu- 
ally parted us, as if the British Channel rolled between us. 

Yours, my dear Sister, with Mrs. Unwin's best love. 

Wm. COWPER. 
ylugust 12, 1782. 



A flood that precluded him fi'om the conversation of such aft 
enlivening friend was to CoAvper a serious evil ; but he was hap- 
pily relieved from the apprehension of such disappointment in fu- 
ture, by seeing the friend so pleasing and so useful to him very 
comfortably settled as his next door neighbour. 

Lady Austen became a tenant of the Parsonage in Olney; when 
Mr. Newton occupied that Parsonage he had opened a door in the 
'garden wall that admitted him, in the most commodious manner, 
to A'isit the sequestered Poet, who i*esided in the next house. 
Lady Austen had the advantage of this easy intercourse, and so 
captivating v,'as her society, both to Cowper and to Mrs. Unwin, 
that these intimate neighbours might be almost said to make one 
family, as it became their custom to dine always together, alter- 
nately, in the houses of the two ladies. 

The musical talents of Lady Austen induced Cowper to write a 
few songs of peculiar sweetness and pathos, to suit particular airs 
tliat she was accustomed to play on the Harpsichord. I insert three 
of these as proofs, that even in his hours of social amusement, the 
Poet loved to dwell on ideas of tender devotion and pathetic so- 
kmnity. 

SONG 
Written in the Sumyner of 1783, at the request of Lady Austen» 

Air — " My fond Shepherds of late," Sec. 

No longer I follow a sound ; 

No longer a dream I pursue: ^ 

Happiness, not to be found, 
dnattainable treasure, adieu ! 

1 bavc sought thee in splendour and dress; 
In the regions of pleasure and taste : 

I have souglvt tlice, and seem'd to possess. 
But have prov'd thee a vision at last. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 

An humble ambition and hope 
The voice of true wisdom inspires ; 

*Tis sufficient if Peace be the scope, 
And the summit of ail our desires. 

Peace may be the lot of the mind, 
That seeks it in meekness and love ; 

But rapture and bliss are confin'd 
To the glorified Spirits above. • 



SONG 2. 
Air—" The Lass of Pattie's Mill." 

Wlien all within is peace, 

How Nature seems to smile ! 
Delights that never cease, 

The livelong day beguile. 
From morn to dewy eve. 

With open hand she showers 
Fresh blessings, to deceive 

And soothe the silent hours. 

It is content of heart 

Gives Nature power to please ; 
The mind that feels no smart 

Enlivens all it sees ; 
Can make a wint'ry sky 

Seem bright as smiling May, 
And evening's closing eye 

As peep of early day. 

The vast majestic globe, 

So beautecusly arrayed 
In Nature's various robe, 

With wond'rous skill display'd. 
Is, to a mourner's heart, 

A dreary wild at best : 
It flutters to depart, 

And longs to be at rest. 



I add the following Song (adapted to the March in Scipio) for 
V.WO reasons ; because it is pleasing to promote the celebrity of a 

VOL. I. I. 



n LIFE OF COWPER. 

brave man, calamitously cut off in his career of honour, and be- 
cause the Song was a favourite production of the Poet's ; so much 
so, that, in a season of depressive illness, he amused himself by 
translating it into Latin verse. 

SONG 3. 

On the Loss of the Royal George, 

Toll for the brave ! 
The brave ! that are no more ! 

All sunk beneath the wave, 
Fast by their native shore. 

Eight hundred of the brave. 

Whose courage well was tried, 
Had made the vessel heel. 

And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 
And she was overset ; 

Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete- 
Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone : 
His last sea-fight is foughtj 

His woi-k of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock : 
She sprang no fatal leak; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath, 

His fingers held the pen. 
When Kempenfelt went down. 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England oAves. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again, 
Full charg'd with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 



Let the reader who wishes to impress on his mind a just idea of 
the variety and extent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast this 
heroic Ballad, of exquisite pathos, with his diverting history of 
John Gilpin ! 

That admirable and highly popular piece of pleasantry was 
composed at the period of which I am now speaking (1783). An 
elegant and judicious writer, w ho has recently favoured the public 
with three interesting volumes relating to the early poets of our 
country, conjectures, that a poem, written by the celebrated Sir 
Thomas More in his youth, (the merry jest of the Sergeant and 
Frere), may have suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin: 
but that fascinating Ballad had a different origin ; and it is a very 
remarkable fact, that, full of gaiety and humour, as this favourite 
of the public has abundantly proved itself to be, it was really com- 
posed at a time when the spirit of the Poet, as he informed me 
himself, was very deeply tinged with his depressive malady. It 
happened one afternoon, in those years when his accomplished 
friend. Lady Austen, made a part of his little evening circle, that 
she observed him sinking into increasing dejection : it was her cus- 
tom, on these occasions, to try all the resources of her sprightly 
powers for his immediate relief. She told him the story of John 
Gilpin (which had been ti-easured in her memory from her child- 
hood) to dissipate tlie gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on the 
fancy of Cowper had the air of enchantment : he informed her 
the next morning, tliat convulsions of laugliter, brought on by his 
recollection of her story, had kept him waking during the greatest 
part of the night, and that he had turned it into a Ballad. So arose 
the pleasant Poem of John Gilpin. It was eagerly copied, and find- 
ing its way rapidly to the newspapers, it was seized by the lively 
spirit of Henderson, the Comedian, a native of Newport-Pagnell, 
and a man, like tlie Yorick described by Shakspeare, " of infinite 
jest, and most excellent fancy ;" it was seized by Henderson as a 
proper subject for the display of his own comic powers ; and by re? 



76 LIFE OF COWPER. 

citing it in his public readings, he gave uncommon celebrity to the 
Ballad, before the public suspected to what Poet they were indebted 
for the sudden burst of ludicrous amusement. Many readers were 
astonished when the Poem made its first authentic appearance in 
the second volume of Cowper. In some letters of the Poet to Mr. 
Hill, which did not reach me till my work was nearly finished, I 
find an account of John Gilpin's first introduction to the world, 
and a circumstance relating to the first volume of Cowper's Poems, 
which may render the following selection from this correspondence 
peculiarly interesting. 

LETTER XXXn. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

Feb. 13 «y20, 1783. 
Mv DEAR Friend, 

In writing to you I never want a subject. 
Self is always at hand, and Self, with its concerns, is always inter- 
esting to a friend. 

You may think, perhaps, that having commenced Poet by pi'o- 
fession, I am always writing verses. Not so — I have written 
nothing, at least finished nothing, since I published — except a cer- 
tain facetious history of John Gilpin, which Mr. Unwin would 
send to the Public Advertiser ; perhaps you might read it without 
suspecting the Author. 

My Book procures me favours, which my modesty will not per- 
mit me to specify, except one, which, modest as I am, I cannot 
suppress, a very handsome Letter from Dr. Franklin, at Passy — 
These fruits it has brought me. 

I have been refreshing myself with a walk in the garden, where 
I find that January (who, according to Chaucer, was the husband 
cf May) being dead, February has married the widow. 

Yours, &c. W. C, 



LETTER XXXm. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

Olney^ Feb. 20, irSSy 
Suspecting that I should not have hinted at Dr. 
Franklin's encomium under any other influence than that of vanity, 
I was several times on the point of burning my letter for that very 
reason. But not having time to v/rite another by the same post, 
and believing that you would have the grace to pardon a little sell- 
complacency in an Author on so trying an occasion, I let it pass. 
One sin naturally leads to another and a greater, and tlius it hap. 



LIFE OF COWPER. JT 

pens now: for I have no way to gratify your curiosity, but by 
transcribing the letter in question. It is addressed, by the way, 
not to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, who had transmitted 
the volume to him without my knowledge. 

<' Sir, Pa8sy^ Maxj 8, 1782. 

I received the letter you did me the honour of 
writing to me, and am much obliged by your kind pi-esent of a 
book. The relish for reading of Poetry had long since left me ; 
but there is something so new in the manner, so easy and yet so 
correct in the language, so clear in the expression, yet concise, 
and so just in the sentiments, that I have read the whole with 
great pleasure, and some of the pieces more than once. I beg 
you to accept my thankful acknowledgments, and to present my 
respects to the author. 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

B. FRANKLIN." 



LETTER XXXn*. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 
Mt dear Friei.d, 

Great revolutions happen in this Ant's 
jiest of ours. One Emmet of illustrious character and great abi- 
lities pushes out another ; parties are formed; they range them- 
selves in formidable opposition ; they threaten each other's ruin ; 
they cross over, and are mingled together ; and, like the corrus- 
cations of the Northern Aurora, amuse the spectator, at the same 
time that, by some, they are supposed to be forerunners of a general 
dissolution. 

There are political earthquakes as well as natural ones ; the 
former less shocking to the eye, but not always less fatal in their 
influence than the latter. The image which Nebuchadnezzar saw 
in his dream was made up of heterogeneous and incompatible ma- 
terials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is so formed must 
expect a like catastrophe. 

I have an etching of the late Chancellor hanging over the par- 
lour chimney. I often contemplate it, and call to mind the day 
when I was intimate with the original. It is very like him, but he 
is disguised by his hat, which, though fashionable, is aukward; by 
his great wig, the tie of which is hardly discernable in profile ; and 
by his band and gown, which give him an appearance clumsily 
Facerdotal. Our friendship is dead and buried; yours is tlie only 
surviving one of all with which I was once honoured. Adieu. 



7S LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER XXXV. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

May 26, 1783. 
I feel for my uncle, and do not wonder 
that his loss afflicts him. A connection that has subsisted so many 
years could not be rent asunder without great pain to the survivor. 
I hope, however, and doubt not but when he has had a little more 
time for recollection, he will find that consolation in his own fa- 
mily which is not the lot of every father to be blessed with. It 
seldom happens that married persons live together so long or so 
happily: but this, which one feels oneself ready to suggest as mat- 
ter of alleviation, is the very circumstance that aggravates his 
distress ; therefore he misses her the more, and feels that he can 
but ill spare her. It is, however, a necessary tax, which all who 
live long must pay for their longevity, to lose many whom they 
would be glad to detain (perhaps those in whom all their happiness 
IS centered), and to see them step into the grave before them. 
In one ixspect at least this is a merciful appointment. When life 
has lost that to which it owed its principal relish, we may our- 
selves the more cheerfully resign it. I beg you would present him 
with my most affectionate remembrance, and tell him, if you 
think fit, how much I wish that the evening of his long day may 
be serene and happy. 



LETTER XXXVI. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 

Octob^)- 20, 1783. 
I should not have been thus long silent, 
had 1 known with certainty where a letter of mine might find 
you. Your summer excursions, however, are now at an end, 
and addressing a line to you in the centre of the busy scene 
in which you spend your winter, I am pretty sure of my mark. 

I see the winter approaching without much concern, though a 
passionate lover of fine weather, and the pleasant scenes of sum- 
mer; but the long evenings have their comforts too, and there 
IS hardly to be found upon the earth, I suppose, so snug a crea- 
tui'e as an Englishman by his fire-side in the winter. I mean, 
however, an Englishman that lives in the country, for in London 
it is not very easy to avoid inti'usion. I have two ladies to read 
to— sometimes more, but never less. At present we are circum- 
navigating the globe, and I find the old story with which I amused 
myself some j ears since, through the great felicity of a memory 



LIFE OF COWPER. 79 

hot very retentive, almost new. I am, however, sadly at a loss 
for Cook's Voyage: Can you send it? I shall be glad of Forster's 
too. These together will make the winter pass merrily, and you 
will much oblige me. 

The last letter contains a slight sketch of those happy winter 
evenings which the Poet has painted so exQuisitely in verse. The 
two ladies whom he mentions as his constant auditors were Mrs. 
Unwin and Lady Austen. The public, already indebted to the 
friendly and cheerful spirit of the latter for the pleasant Ballad of 
John Gilpin, had soon to thank her inspii-ing benevolence for a 
■work of superior dignity, the very master-piece of Cowper's im- 
bounded imagination ( 

This lady happened, as an admirer of Milton, to be partial to 
blank verse, and often solicited her poetical friend to try his powers 
in that species of composition. After i-epeated solicitation, he pro- 
mised her, if she Would furnish the subject, to comply with her 
request. — ^" O," she replied, " you can never be in want of a sub- 
ject — you can write upon any — write upon this sofa !" The Poet 
obeyed her command, and from the lively repartee of familiar 
conversation arose a Poem of many thousand verses, unexampled 
perhaps both in its origin and its excellence ! A Poem of such in- 
finite variety, that it seems to include every subject, and every 
style, without any dissonance or disorder; and to have flowed, 
without eflfoi't, from inspired philanthropy, eager to impress upon 
the hearts of all readers Avliatever may lead them most happily to 
the full enjoyment of human life, and to the final attainment of 
Heaven. 

The Task appears to have been composed in the winter of 1784. 
A circumstance the more remarkable, as v/inter was, in general, 
particularly unfavourable to the health of the Poet. In the com- 
mencement of the Poem he marks both the season and the year, 
in the tender address to his companion. 

" WHiose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
'' Fast lock'd in mine." 

If such can be the proper date of this most interesting Poem, 
it must have been written w ith inconceivable rapidity, for it was 
certainly finished very early in November. This appears from 
the following passage in a letter of the Poet's to his friend Mr. 
Bull, in which he not only mentions the comjjletion of his great 
work, but gives a particular account of liis next production. 

" The Task, as you know, is gone to the press: since it went I 



B6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

have been employed in writing another Poem, which I am novf 
transcribing, and which, in a short time, I design shall follow. It 
i<5 entitled Tirocinium, or a Review of Schools : the business and 
purpose of it are to censure the want of discipline, and the scan- 
dalous inattention to morals, that obtain in them ; especially in the 
largest; and to recommend private tuition as a mode of education 
preferable on all accounts ; to call upon fathers to become tutors 
of their own sons, where that is practicable} to take home to 
them a domestic tutor, where it is not; and if neither can be 
done, to place them under the care of such a man as he to whom 
I am writing ; some rural Parson, whose attention is limited to a 
few." 

The date of this letter (Nov. 8, 1784), and the information it 
contains, induce me to imagine that the Task was really begun 
before the winter of 1784, and that the passage which I have cited, 
as marking the sera of its composition, was added in the course of 
a revisal. 

The following passages from Cowper's letters to his last inen- 
tioned correspondent confirm this conjecture. 

August 3, 1783—^" Your sea-side situation, your beautiful pros- 
pects, your fine rides, and the sight of the palaces, which you 
have seen, we have not envied you ; but are glad that you have 
enjoyed them. Why should we envy any man? Is not our green- 
house a cabinet of perfumes ? It is at this moment fronted with 
carnations and balsams, with mignonette and roses, with jessamine 
and woodbine, and wants nothing but your pipe to make it truly- 
Arabian; — a wilderness of sweets! The Sofa is ended, but not 
finished; a paradox which yom' natural acumen, sharpened by ha- 
bits of logical attention, will enable you to reconcile in a moment. 
Do not imagine, however, that I lounge over it — on the contrary, I 
find it severe exercise to mould and fashion it to my mindl" 

February 22, 1784 — " I congratulate you on the thaw — I sup- 
pose it is an universal blessing, and probably felt all over Europe. 
I myself am the better for it, who wanted nothing that might make 
the frost supportable : what reason, therefore, ha-\e they to rejoice 
who, being in want of all things, were exposed to its utmost ri- 
gour? — The ice in my ink, however, is not yet dissolved — It was 
long before the frost seized it, but at last it prevailed — The Sofa 
has consequently received little or no addition since — It consists at 
present of four Books, and part of a fifth: when the sixth is 
finished, the work is accomplished; but if I may judge by my pre- 
sent inability, that period is at a ccniiiderable distance." 

The year 1784 was a memorable period in the life of the Poet, 
not only as it witnessed the ccmpletion of one extensive work, 



LIFE OF CO\\TER. sf. 

and the commencement of another, (his Translation of Homer) 
but as it terminated his inteixourse with that highly pleasing and 
valuable friend whose alacrity of attention and advice had induced 
him to engage in both. 

Dehghtfiil and advantageous as his friendship with Lady Austen 
had proved, he now began to feel that it grew impossible to pre- 
scA've that triple cord, which his own pure heart had led him to 
suppose not speedily to be broken. Mrs. Unwin, though by no 
means destitute of mental accomplishments, was eclipsed by the 
brilliancy of the Poet's new friend, and naturally became uneasy 
under the apprehension of bping so; for, to a. woman of sensibility, 
what evil can be more afflicting than the fear of losing all mental 
influence over a man of genius and virtue whom she has been long 
accustomed to inspirit and to guide? 

Cowper perceived the painful necessity of sacrificing a great 
portion of his present gratifications. He felt that he must relin- 
quish that ancient friend, whom he regarded as a venerable parent, 
or the new associate, whom he idolized as a sister of a heart and 
mind peculiarly congenial to his own. His gratitude for past ser- 
vices of unexampled magnitude and weight would not allow him to 
hesitate, and, with a resolution and delicacy that do the highest 
konour to his feelings, he wrote a farewell letter to Lady Austen, 
explaining and lamenting the circumstances that forced him to re- 
nounce the society of a friend, whose enchanting talents and kind- 
ness had proved so agreeably instrumental to the revival of his 
spirits, and to the exercise of his fancy. 

The letters addressed to Mr. Hill at this period express, in ai 
most pleasing manner, the sensibility of Co\vper, 

LETTER XXXVn. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 
My DEAR Friend, Se/t(. 11, 1784. 

I have never seen Dr. Cotton's book, con- 
cerning which your sisters question me ; nor did I know, 'till you 
mentioned it, that he had written any thing newer than his Visions; 
I have no doubt that it is so far worthy of him as to be pious and 
sensible, and I believe no man living is better qualified to write on 
such subjects as his title seems to announce. Some years have 
passed since I heard from him, and, considering his great age, it is 
probable that I shall hear from him no more ; but I shall always 
respect him. He is truly a philosopher, according to my judg- 
ment of the character; every tittle of his knowledge in natural 
subjects being connected, in his mind, with the firm belief of an 
Omnipotent Agent. Youi's, kc. W. C. 

VOL. I. M 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER XXXVin. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Mr DEAR Friend, 

To condole with you on the death of d 
mother aged eighty-seven would be absurd — ^Rather, therefore, as 
is reasonable, I congratulate you on the almost singular felicity of 
having enjoyed the company of so amiable and so near a relation 
so long. Your lot and mine, in this respect, have been very differ- 
ent, as, indeed, in almost every other. Your mother lived to see 
you rise, at least to see you comfortably established in the world. 
Mine dying when I was six years old, did not live to see me sink 
in it. You'may remember, with pleasure, while you live, a bless- 
ing vouchsafed to you so long, and I, while I live, must regret a 
comfort of which I was deprived so early. I can truly say that not 
a week passes, (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in 
■which I do not think of her. Such was the impression her tender- 
ness made upon me, though the opportunity she had for showing 
it was so short. But the ways of God are equal — ^and when I re- 
flect on the pangs she would have suffered had she been a witness 
of all mine, I se6 more cause to rejoice than to mourn that she 
was hidden in the grave so soon. 

We have, as you say, lost a lively and sensible neighbour in 
Lady Austen ; but we have been long accustomed to a state of re- 
tirement, within one degree of solitude, and being naturally lovers 
of still life, can relapse into our former duality without being un- 
happy at the change. To me, indeed, a third is not necessary, 
while I can have the companion I have had these twenty years. 

I am gone to the press again ; a volume of mine will greet your 
hands some time either in the course of the winter or early in tho- 
spring. You will find it, perhaps, on the whole, more entertaining 
than the former, as it treats of a greater variety of subjects, and 
those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. It will consist of a 
Poem in six books, called the Task. To which will be added an- 
other, which I finished yesterday, called, I believe. Tirocinium, on 
the subject of Education. 

You perceive that I have taken your advice, and given the pen- 
no rest. 



UFE OF COWPER. 55 

LETTER XXXIX. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

June2Sy 178S, 
My dear Friend, 

I wi'ite in a nook that I call my Boudoir^ 
It is a summer-house not much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door 
of which opens into the garden that is now crowded with pinks, 
jroses and honey-suckles, and the window into my neighbour's 
crohai'd. It formerly served an apothecary, now dead, as a smok- 
ing-room, and under my feet is a trap-door, which once covered a 
hole in the ground, where he kept his bottles. At present, how- 
ever, it is dedicated to sublimer uses. Having lined it with garden 
mats, and furnished it with a table and two chairs, here I write all 
that I write in summer time, whether to my fi'iends, or to the 
public. It is secure from aU noise, and a refuge from all intrusion; 
for intruders sometimes trouble me in the winter evenings at Olney. 
But thanks to my Boudoir, I can now hide myself from them. A 
Poet's retreat is sacred: they acknowledge the truth of tliat pro- 
position, and never presume to violate it. 

The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you, that I have ordered 
my volume to your door. My bookseller is the most dilatory of all 
his fraternity, or you would have received it long since : it is more 
than a month since I returned him the last proof, and consequently 
since the printing was finished. I sent him the manuscript at the 
beginning of last November, that he might publish while the to^vn 
is full, and he will hit the exact moment when it is entirely empty. 
Patience you will perceive is in no situation exempted from the 
severest trials ; a remark that may serve to comfort you under the 
numberless trials of your own, 

w. c. 



His second volume, x>f whose delay in the press he speaks so 
feelingly, was publislied in the summer of 1785. It not only 
raised him to the summit of poetical reputation, but obtained for 
him a blessing infinitely dearer to his afifectionate heart, another 
female friend, and lively associate, now providentially led to con- 
tribute to his comfort, when the advanced age and infirmities of 
Mrs. Unwin made such an acquisition of new, or rather revived 
friendship, a matter of infinite importance to the tranquility and 
welfare of tlie sequestered Poet. 

The Lad)" to whom I allude had the advantage of being nearly 
»\-lat^d to (^owper. Their intercourse had been frequent, and 



84. LIFE OF COWPER. 

endeared by reciprocal esteem in tlieir early years ; but the whirl- 
winds of life had driven them far from the sight of each other. 
During the Poet's long retirement his fair cousin had passed some 
years with her husband abroad, and others, after her return, in a 
variety of mournful duties. She was at this time a widow, and her 
indelible regard for her poetical relation, being agreeably inspirited 
by the publication of his recent works, she wrote to him, on that 
occasion, a very kind letter. 

It gave rise to many from him, which I am particiilarly happy 
in being enabled to make a part of this work, because they give a 
minute accovint of their admirable author, at a very interesting 
period of his life ; and because I persuade myself they will reflect 
peculiar honour on my departed friend in various points of view, 
and lead the public to join with me in thinking that his letters are 
rivals to his Poems, in the rai'e excellence of representing life and 
nature with graceful and endearing fidelity. 

LETTER XL. 
To Lady HESKETH, New Norfolk Street, Grosvefior-Squarej 

October 12, 1785. 
My DEAR Cousin, 

It is no new thing with you to give plea- 
sure, but I will venture to Say that you do not often give more than 
you gave me this moraing. When I came down to breakfast, and 
found upon the table a letter franked by my uncle, and when open- 
ing that frank I found that it contained a letter from you, I said 
within myself, this is just as it should be- we are all grown young 
again, and the days that I thought I should see no more, are ac- 
tually returned. You perceive therefore that you judged well 
when you conjectured that a line from you would not be disagree- 
able to me. It could not be otherwise than, as in fact it proved, a 
most agreeable surprize, for I can truly boast of an affection for you 
that neither years nor interrupted intercourse have at all abated. 
I need only recollect how much I valued you once, and with how 
much Cause, immediately to feel a revival of the same value ; if that 
can be said to revive, which at the most has only been dormant for 
want of employment. But I slander it when I say that it has slept. 
A thousand times have I recollected a thousand scenes in which our 
two selves have formed the whole of the drama, with the greatest 
pleasure ; at times too v/hen I had no reason to suppose that I 
should ever hear from you again. I have laughed with you at tlie 
Arabian Nights Entertainment, which afforded us, as you well 
know, a fund of merriment that deser\'es never to be forgot. I 
have walked with you to Nettley Abbey, and have scrambled with 



LIFE OF COWPER. 83 

you ovel* hedges in every direction, and many otlier feats we have 
performed together, upon the field of my remembrance, and all 
within these few years, should I say within this twelvemonth I 
should not transgress the truth. The hours that I have spent with 
you were among the pleasantest of my former days, and are there- 
fore chronicled in my mind so deeply as to fear no erasure. Nei- 
ther do I forget my poor friend Sir Thomas : I should remember hlni 
indeed at any rate on account of his personal kindnesses to myself, 
but the last testimony that he gave of his regard for you, endears 
him to me still more. With his uncommon understanding (for 
witii many peculiarities he had more sense than any of his acquaint- 
ance) and with his generous sensibilities, it was hardly possible that 
he should not distinguish you as he has done : as it was the last, so 
it was the best proof that he could give of a judgment that never 
deceived him, when he would allow himself leisure to consult it. 

You say that you have often heard of me: that puzzles me. I 
cannot imagine from what quarter ; but it is no matter. I must tell 
you, however, my Cousin, that your information has been a little 
defective. That I am happy in my situation is true : I live and 
have lived these twenty years with Mrs. Unwin, to whose affec- 
tionate care of me during the far greater part of that time, it is, 
under Pi'ovidence, owing that I live at all. But I do not account 
myself happy in having been for thirteen of those years in a state 
of mind that has made all that care and attention necessary : an 
attention and a care that have injured her health, and which, 
had she not been uncommonly supported, must have brought her 
to the grave. But I will pass to another subject ; it would be cruel 
to particularize only to give pain ; neither would I by any means 
give a sable hue to the first letter of a correspondence so unex- 
pectedly renewed. 

I am delighted with what you tell me of my uncle's good health; 
to enjoy any measure of cheerfulness at so late a day is much, but 
to have that late day enlivened with the vi\'acity of j^outh, is much 
more, and in these postdiluvian times a rarity indeed. Happy, for 
the most part, are parents who have daughters. Daughters arc 
not apt to outlive their natural affections, which a son has generally 
sui'vived even before his boyish years are expired. I rejoice parti- 
cularly in my uncle's felicity, who has three female descendants 
from his little person, who leave him nothing to wish for upon that 
head. 

My dear Cousin, dejection of spirits, which I suppose may 
have prevented many a man from becoming an Author, made mc 
one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take 
care t.o be constantly employed. Manual occupations do not en- 



«6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

gage the mind sufficiently, as I know by experience, having tried 
many: but composition, especially of vei'se, absorbs it wholly. 
I write therefore generally three hours in a morning, and in an 
evening I transcribe. I read also, but less than I write, for I must 
have bodily exercise, and therefore never pass a day without it. 

You ask me where I have been this summer. I answer at 
Olney. Should you ask me where I spent the last seventeen sum- 
mers, I should still answer at Olncy. Ay, and the winters also, 
I have seldom left it, and except when I attended my brother in 
his last illness, never I believe a fortnight together. 

Adieu, my beloved Cousin : I shall not always be thus nimble in 
reply, but shall always have great pleasure in answering you when 
I can. 

Yours, my Friend and Cousin, 

Wm. COWPER. 



LETTER XLL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olney^ Nqv» 9, 1765, 
My dearest Cousin, 

Whose last most affectionate letter has 
lun in my head ever since I received it, and which I now sit down 
to answer two days sooner than the post will serve me. I thank 
you for it, and with a warmth for which I am sure you will give 
me credit, though I do not spend many words in describing it. I do 
not seek neiv fr?ends, not being altogether sure that I should find 
them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being still beloved by an old 
one. I hope that now our correspondence has suffered its last in- 
terruption, and that we shall go down together to the grave chat- 
ting and chirping as merrily as such a scene of things as this will 
permit. 

I am happy that my Poems have pleased you. My volume has 
afforded me no such pleasure at any time, either while I was writ- 
ing it, or since its publication, as I have dei'ived from yours and 
my uncle's opinion of it. I make certain allowances for pai'- 
tiality, and for that peculiar quickness of taste with which you 
both relish what you like, and after all draw-backs upon those 
accounts duly made, find myself rich in the measure of your 
approbation that still remains. But above all I honour John 
Gilpin, since it was he who first encouraged you to write. I made 
him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose well ; but 
I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisition than all 
the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my inter-. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 87 

course with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and 
generous Cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted any thing, 
and given delicately enough to understand that the enquirer was 
ready to supply all my occasions, I thankfully and civily, but posi- 
tively declined the favour. I neither suffer, nor have suffered any 
such inconveniences as I had not much rather endure, than come 
under obligations of that sort to a person comparatively with youi-- 
self a stranger to me. But to you I answer otherwise. I know 
you thoroughly, and the liberality of your disposition ; and have 
that consummate confidence in the sincerity of your wish to serve 
me, that delivers me from all aukward constraint, and from all 
fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you, therefore, I reply, 
yes ; whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what manner soever you 
please ; and add, moreover, that my affection for the giver is such 
as -ivill increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that I shall have in 
receiA'ing. It is necessary, however, that I should let you a little 
into the state of my finances, that you may not suppose them more 
narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and I 
have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse ; although, during 
the whole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double' 
mine. Her revenues, indeed, are now in some measure reduced, 
and do not much exceed my own : the worst consequence of this 
h, that we are forced to deny ourselves some things which hitherto 
•we have been better able to afford ; but they are such things as 
neither life nor the well-being of life depend upon. My own in- 
come has been better than it is, but when it was best, it would 
not have enabled me to live as my connections demanded that I 
should, had it not been combined with a better than itself, at least 
at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full proof during three 
months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon, in Avhich time, by 
the help of good management, and a clear notion of (Economical 
matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, 
my beloved Cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as it 
stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for 
there is no need of it; but indulge yourself in communicating (no 
matter what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so 
doing you will be sure to add to the comforts of my life, one of the 
sweetest that I can enjoy, a token and proof of your affection. 

In the affairs of my next publication, toward which you also 
offer me so kindly your assistance, there will be no need that you 
should help me in the manner that you propose. It will be a large 
work, consisting, I should imagine, of six volumes at least. Tlie 
twelfth of this month I shall have spent a year upon it, and it will 
cost mc moi'e than another. I do not love the booksellers well 



88 LIFE OF COWPER. 

enough to make them a present of such a labour, but intend to pub- 
lish by subscription. Your vote and interest, my dear Cousin, upon 
the occasion, if you please, but nothing more ! I will trouble you 
with some papers of proposals, when the time shall come, and am 
sure that you will circulate as many for me as you can. Now, my 
dear, I am going to tell you a secret. It ii a great secret, that you 
miust not whisper even to your cat. No creature is at this moment 
apprised of it, but Mrs. Unwin and her Son. I am making a new 
translation of Homer, and am upon the point of finishing the 
twenty-first book of the Iliad. The reasons upon which I under- 
take this Herculean labour, and by which I justify an enterprize 
in which I seem so effectually anticipated by Pope, although, in fact, 
he has not anticipated me at all, I may possibly give you, if you 
Avish for them, when I can find nothing more interesting to say; a 
period which I do not conceive to be very near ! I have not an- 
swered many things in your letter, nor can do it at present for 
want of room. I cannot believe but that I should know you, not- 
Avithstanding all that time may have done. There is not a feature 
of your face, could I meet it upon the road by itself, that I should 
not instantly recollect. I should say, that is my Cousin's nose, or 
those are her lips and her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim 
them but herself. As for me, I am a very smart youth of my 
years. I am not indeed grown grey so mucli as I am gi'own bald. 
No matter. There was more hair in the world than ever had the 
honour to belong to me. Accordingly, having found just enough 
to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little of my own 
that still hangs behind, I appear, if you se? me in an afternoon, to 
have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguished from my 
natiu'al growth; which being worn by a small bag, and a black 
j'iband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, 
even on the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing toQ 
often. Yours, my dearest Cousin, 

W. C. 
P. S. That the view I give you of myself may be complete, I 
add the two follov/ing items — That I am in debt to nobody, and 
that I groAV fat. 



LETTER XLII. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

My dearest Cousin, 

T am glad that I always loved you as I 
did. It releases me from any occasion to suspect that my present 
afTection for you is indebted for its existence to any selfish consi- 



LIFE OF COVVPER. J!9 

Aerations. No. I am sure I love you disinterestedly, and for your 
own sake, because I never thought of you with any other sensa- 
tions than those of the truest affection, even when I was under the 
influence of a pei'suasion, that I should never hear from you again. 
But with my present feelings, superadded to those that I always 
had for you, I find it no easy matter to do justice to my sensations. 
I perceive myself in a state of mind similar to that of the traveller, 
described in Pope's Messiah, who, as he passes through a sandy 
desart, starts at the sudden and unexpected sound of a waterfall. 
You have placed me in a situation new to me, and in which I feel 
myself somewhat puzzled how I ought to behave. At the same 
time that I would not grieve you by putting a check upon your 
bounty, I would be as careful not to abuse it, as if I were a miser, 
and the question not about your money but my own. 

Although I do not suspect that a secret to you, my cousin, is 
any burthen, yet having maturely considered that point since I 
wrote my last, I feel myself altogeth*?r disposed to release you front 
the injunction to that effect under which I laid you. I have now 
made such a progress in my translation, that I need neither fear 
that I shall stop short of the end, nor that any other rider of Pe- 
gasus should overtake me. Therefore, if at any time it should fall 
fairly in your waj-, or you should feel yourself invited to say that 
I am so occupied, you have my Poetship's free permission. Dr. 
rfohnson read and recommended my first volume. 

W. C. 



LETTER XLIIL 

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqillre. 

Dec, 24, 1785. 
My dear Friend, 

'Till I had made such a progi-ess in my 
present undertaking as to put it out of all doubt that, if I lived, I 
should proceed in and finish it, I kept the matter to myself. It 
would have done me little honour to have told my friends that 
I had an arduous enterprize in hand, if afterwards I must have told 
them that I had dropped it. Knowing it to have been universally 
the opinion of the literati, ever since they have allowed them- 
selves to consider the matter coolly, that a translation, properly so 
called, of Homer, is, notwithstanding what Pope has done, a de- 
sideratum in the English language, it struck me that an attempt 
to supply the deficiency would be an honourable one ; and having 
made myself, in former years, somewhat critically a master of the 

VOL. I. N 



90 LIFE OF COWPER. 

original, I was, by this double consideration, induced to make thfe 
attempt myself. I am now translating into blank verse the last 
book of the Diad, and mean to publish by subscription. 

W. C. 



LETTER XLIV. 
To Lady HESKETH 

Jan. 10, 1786. 
It gave m.e great pleasure that you found my 
friend Unwin, what I was sure you would find him, a most agree- 
able man. I did not usher him in with the marrow-bones and clea- 
vers of high-sounding panegyric, both because I was certain- 
that whatsoever merit he had, your discernment would mark it, 
and because it is possible to do a m.an material injury, by making 
his praise his harbinger. It is easy to raise expectation to such a 
pitch that the reality, be it ever so excellent, must necessarily 
fall below it. 

I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , of whom I have the 

first information from yourself, both for his friendly dispositions 
towards me, and for the manner in which he marks the defects in 
my volume. An author must be tender indeed, to wince on being 
touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he says, and as you and 
my uncle say. You cannot be all mistaken, neither is it at all pro- 
bable that any of you should be so. I take it for granted, there- 
fore, that there are inequalities in the composition ; and I do assure 
you, my dear, most faithfully, that if it should reach a second edi- 
tion, I will spare no pains to improve it. It may serve me for an 
agreeable amusement, perhaps, when Homer "shall be gone and 
done with. The first edition of poems has generally been suscep- 
tible of improvement. Pope, I believe, never published one in 
his life, that did not undergo variations, and his longest pieces 
many. I will only observe, that inequalities there must be always, 
and in every work of length. There are level parts of every sub- 
ject, parts Avhich we cannot, witji propriety, attempt to elevate. 
They are by nature humble, and can only be made to assume an 
aukward and uncouth appearance by being mounted. But again, 
I take it for granted that this remark dees not apply to tlie matter 
of your objection. You were sufficiently aware of it before, and 
have no need that I should suggest it as an apology, could it 
have served that office, but would have made it for me yourself. 
In truth, my dear, had you knov/n in wliat anguish of mind 
I wrote the whole of that poem, and under what perpetual in~ 
terxuptions from a cause that has since been removed, so that 



LIFE OF COWPEK. 91 

sometimes I had not an opportunity of writing more than three 
lines at a sitting, you would long since have wondered as much as 
I do myself, that it turned out any thing better than Grub-street. 

My cousin, give yourself no trouble to find out any of the Magi 
to scrutinize my Homer. I can do without them ; and if I were 
not conscious that I have no need of their help, I would be the first 
to call for it. Assure yourself that I intend to be carefiil to the 
utmost line of all possible caution, both with respect to language 
and versification. I will not send a verse to the press, that shall 
not have undergone the strictest examination. 

A subscription is surely on every account the most eligible mode 
of publication. When I shall have emptied the purses of my friends 
and of their friends into my own, I am still free to levy contribu- 
tions upon the world at large, and I shall then have a fund to de- 
fray the expenses of a new edition. I have ordered Johnson to 
print the proposals immediately, and hope that they will kiss your 
hands before the week is expired. 

I have had the kindest letter from Josephus that I ever had. He 
mentioned my purpose to one of the masters of Eton, who replied, 
that " such a work is much wanted." 

W. C. 



LETTER XLV. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olney, Ja7i, 31, 1786. 
It is very pleasant, my dearest cousin, 
to receive a present so delicately conveyed as that which I re- 
ceived so lately from Anonymous, but it is also very painful to have 
nobody to thank for it. I find myself, therefore, driven by stress 
of necessity to the following resolution, viz. that I will constitute 
you my Thank-receiver-general, for whatsoever gift I shall re- 
ceive hereafter, as well as for those that I have already received 
from a nameless benefactor. I therefore thank you, my cousin, 
for a most elegant present, including the most elegant compliment 
that ever Poet was honoured With; for a snuff-box of tortoise-shell, 
with a beautiful landscape on the lid of it, glazed with chrystal, 
having the figures of three hai"es in the fore -ground, and inscribed 
above with the words. The Pheasant's JSi'est^ and below with 
these, Tineij^ Puss^ and Bess, For all, and every of these, I 
thank you, and also for standing proxy on this occasion. Nor must 
I forget to thank you, that so soon after I had sent you the first let- 
ter of Anonymous, I received another in the same hand. There— 
now I am a little easier. 



^^ LIFE OF COWPER. 

I have almost conceived a design to send up half a dozen stout 
country-fellows, to tie by the leg to their respective bed-posts, the 
company that so abi'idges your opportunity of writing to me. Your 
letters are the joy of my heart, and I cannot endure to be robbed 
by, I know not whom, of half my treasure. But there is no com- 
fort without a drawback, and therefore it is that I, who have un- 
known friends, have unknown enemies also. Ever since I wrote 
last, I find myself in better health, and my nocturnal spasms and 
fever considerably abated. I intend to write to Dr. Kerr on Thurs- 
day, that I may gratify him with an account of my amendment; 
for to him I know that it will be a gratification. Were he not a 
physician, I should regret that he lives so distant, for he is a most 
agreeable man ; but being what he is, it would be impossible to 
have his company, even if he were a neighbour, unless in time of 
sickness, at which time, whatever charms he might have himself, 
my own must necessarily lose much of their effect on him. 

When I write to )'ou, my dear, what I have already related to 
the General, I am always fearful least I should tell you that for 
news with which you are well acquainted. For once, however, I 
will venture. On Wednesday last I received from Johnson the ma- 
nuscript copy of a specimen that I had sent to the General, and in- 
closed in the same cover notes upon it by an unknown critic. 
Johnson, in a short letter, recommended him to me as a man of 
unquestionable learning and ability. On perusal and consideration 
of his remarks, I found him such, and having nothing so much at 
lieart as to give all possible security to yourself and the General, 
that my work shall not come forth unfinished, I answered John- 
son, " that I would gladly submit my manuscript to his friend,". 
He is, in truth, a very clever fellow, perfectly a stranger to me, and 
one who, I promise you, will not spai'e for severity of animad- 
version where he shall find occasion. It is impossible for j^ou, my 
dearest cousin, to express a wish that I do not equally feel a wish 
to gratify. You are desirous that Maty should see a book of my 
Homer, and for that reason, if Maty will see a book of it, he shall 
be welcome, although time is likely to be precious ; and, conse- 
quently, any delay that is not absolutely necessary, as much as pos- 
sible, to be avoided. I am now revising the Iliad ; it is a business 
that will cost me four months, perhaps five, for I compare the very 
words as I go, and if much alteration should occur, must tran- 
scribe the whole. The first book I have almost transcribed al- 
ready. To these five montlis, Johnson says that nine more must 
be added for printing, and, upon my own experience, I will ven-^ 
ture to assure you, that the tai^diness of printers will make those 
pine months twelve. There is danger, therefore, that my sub- 



LIFE OF COWPER, 93 

'seribevs may think that I make them wait too long, and that they 
who know me not may suspect a bubble. How glad I shall be 
to read it over in an evening, book by book, as fast as I settle the 
copy, to you, and to Mrs. Unwin ! She has been my touchstone al- 
ways, and without reference to her taste and judgment, I have 
printed nothing. With one of you at each elbow, I should tliink 
myself the happiest of all poets. 

The General and I, having broken the ice, are upon the most 
comfoi'table terms of correspondence. He writes very affection- 
ately to me, and I say every thing to him that comes uppermost. 
I could not write frequently to any creature living upon any other 
terms than those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, which 
make him less active tlian he was. I am sorry to hear that he has 
any such. Alas ! alas ! he was young when I saw him only twenty 
yeai's ago. 

I have the most affectionate letter imaginable from Colman, who 
writes to me like a brother. The Chancellor is yet dumb. 

May God have you in his keeping, my beloved cousin. Farewell. 

W. C. 



LETTER XLVI. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olncy, Feb. 9, 1786. 
My DEAREST Cousin, 

I have been impatient to tell you, that I 
am impatient to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in 
all my feelings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I 
should have told you so by the last post, but have been so com- 
pletely occupied by this tormenting specimen, that it was impos- 
sible to do it. I sent the General a letter on Monday, that would 
distress and alarm him: I sent him another yesterday, that will, I 
hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologized very civilly for 
the multitude of his fi-iend's strictures, and his friend has promised 
to confine himself in future to a comparison of me with the origi- 
nal, so that I doubt not we shall jog on merrily together. And now, 
my dear, let me tell you once more, that your kindness in promis- 
ing us a visit has charmed us both. I shall see you again — I 
^hall hear your voice; we shall take walks together; I will show 
you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its banks, 
every thing that I have described. I anticipate the pie? sure of 
those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this mn- 
ment. Talk not of an inn, mention it not for your life. ^V'e have 
jicver had'so many visitors but we could easily accommodate them 



94 LITE OF COWPER. 

all, though vre have received Unwin, and his wife, and his sistei'^ 
and his son, all at once. My dear, I v/ill not let yo\i come till the 
end of May, or beginning of June, because before that time my 
green-house will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only plea- 
sant room belonging to us. When the plants go out, we go in. 
I line it with mats, and spread the floor with mats, and there you 
shall sit with a bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge of ho- 
ney-suckles, roses, and jasmine ; and I will make you a bouquet of 
myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention, the country 
will not be in complete beauty. And I will tell you what you shall 
iind at your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as you have en- 
tered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you 
shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is the box in 
which have been lodged all my hares, and in which lodges Puss at 
present. But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises 
to die before you can see him. On the right hand stands a cup^ 
board, the work of the same author. It was once a dove-cage, 
but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table which I also 
made, but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became 
paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament, and all my 
clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end 
of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour, into 
which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. 
Unwin, (unless we should meet her before), and where we will be 
as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the 
Swan, at Newport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct 
you to Olney. 

My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, 
and have asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which 
Jupiter keeps his wine. . He swears that it is a cask, and that it 
will never be any thing better than a cask to eternity. So if the 
god is content with it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be 
so too. Adieu, my dearest cousin. 

W. C, 



LETTER XLVII. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Oiney, Feb. 11, 1786, 
My dearest Cousin, 

It must be, I suppose, a fortnight or there- 
about, since I wrote last, I feel myself so alert and so ready to 
write again. Be that as it may, hei-e I come. We talk of nobody 
but you; what we will do with you, when we get you; where you 



LIFE OF COWPER. 95 

sJiall walk, where you shall sleep ; in short, every thing that bears 
the remotest relation to your well-being at Olney, occupies all oui- 
talking time, which is all that I do not spend at Troy. 

I have every reason for writing to you as often as I can, but I 
have a particular reason for doing it now. I want to tell you 
that by the Diligence on Wednesday next I mean to send you a 
quire of my Homer for Maty's perusal. It will cnniain the first 
book, and as much of the second as brings us to the catalogue of 
the ships, and is every morsel of the revised copy that I have tran- 
scribed. My dearest cousin, read it yourself — ^Let the General 
read it. Do what you please with it, so that it reach Johnson in 
due time ; but let Maty be the only Critic that has any thing to do 
with it. The vexation, the perplexity that attends a multiplicity 
of criticisms by various hands, many of which are sure to be futile, 
many of them ill-founded, and some of them contradictory to 
others, is inconceivable, except by the author whose ill-fated 
work happens to be the subject of them. This also appears to me 
self-evident ; tliat if a work have past under the review of one 
man of taste and learning, and have had the good foitune to please 
him, his approbation gives security for that of all others qualified 
like himself. I speak thus, my dear, after havmg just escaped 
from such a storm of jiroublc, occasioned by endless remarks, 
hints, suggestions, and objections, as drove me almost to despair, 
and to the very edge of a resolution to drop my undertaking for- 
ever. With infinite difficulty I, at last, sifted the chaff from the 
wheat, availed myself of what appeared to me to be just, and re- 
jected the rest; but not till the labour and anxiety had nearly un- 
done all tliat Kerr had been doing for me. IMy beloved cousin, 
trust me for it, as you safely may, that temper, vanity and self- 
importance had nothing to do in all this distress that I suffered. It 
was merely the effect of an alai-m that I could not help taking, 
when I compared the great trouble I had with a few lines only, 
thus handled, with that which I foresaw such handling of the whole 
must necessarily give me. I felt before-hand that my constitu- 
tion would not bear it. I shall send up this second specimen 
in a box that I have had made on purpose ; and when Maty has 
done with the copy, and you have done with it yourself, then yoit 
must return it in said box to my translatorship. Though John- 
son's friend has teased me sadly, I verily believe that I shall have 
no more such cause to complain of him. We now understand one 
another, and I firmly believe that I might have gone the world 
through, before I had found his equal in an accurate and tamiliar 
acquaintance with the original. 
A letter to Mr. Urban, iu the Ir.st Gentlemau's IMa§;;aziue., of 



ee LIFE OF cowpEr; 

•which I's book is the subject, pleases me more than any thing I 
have seen in the way of eulogium yet. I have no guess of the; 
author. 

I do not wish to remind the Chancellor of his promise. Ask 
you why, my cousin ? Because, I suppose, it would be impossible. 
He has, no doubt, forgotten it entirely, and would be obliged to 
take my word for the truth of it, which I could not bear. We 
drank tea together with Mrs. C — — e and her sister, in King's- 
street, Bloomsbury, and there was the promise made. I said, 
Thurlow, I am nobody, and shall be always nobody, and you will 
be Chancellor: yoit shall provide for me when you are. He smiled 
and replied, I surely will. These ladies, said I, ai-e witnesses. 
He still smiled, and said, let them be so, for I will certainly do it. 
But alas ! tv/enty-four years have passed since the day of the date 
thereof, and to mention it now would be to upbraid him with inat- 
tention to his plighted troth. Neither do I suppose he could easily 
serve such a creature as I am if he would. 

Adieu, whom I Icve entirely. 

VV. C. 



LETTER XLVin. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olney, Feb. 19, 178b. 
My dearest Cousin, 

Since so it must be, so it shall be. If you 
will not sleep under the roof of a friend, may you never sleep un- 
der the roof of an enemy. An enemy, however, you will not 
presently find. Mrs. Unwin bids me mention her affectionately, 
and tell you, that she willingly gives up a part for the sake of the 
rest, willingly, at least as far as willingly may consist with some 
reluctance : I feel my reluctance too. Our design was, that you 
Khould have slept in the room that serves me for a study, and its 
having been occupied by you would have been an additional recom- 
mendation of it to me. But all reluctances are superseded by the 
thought of seeing you; and because we have nothing so much 
at heart as the wish to see you happy and comfortable, we are 
desirous, therefore, to accommodate you to your o\vn mind, and 
not to ours. Mrs. Unwin has already secured for j'ou an apart- 
ment, or rather two, just such as we could wish. The house in 
v/hich you will find them is within thirty yards of our own, and 
opposite to it. The Avhole affair is thus commodiously adjusted; 
and now I have nothing to do but to wish for June, and June, my 
cousin, was ne^ er so wished for since June was made, J shall have 



LIFE OF COWPER. 9r 

a thousand things to hear, and a thousand to saj', and they will 
all rush into my mind together, till it will be so crowded with things 
impatient to be said, that for some time I shall say nothing. But 
no matter-^Sooner or later they will all come out ; and since we 
shall have you the longer, for not having you under our own roof, 
(a circumstance that more than any thing reconciles us to that 
measui-e) they will stand the better chance. After so long a se- 
paration, a separation that, of late, seemed likely to last for Ufe, we 
shall meet each other, as alive from the dead ; and, for my own 
part, I can truly say, that I have not a friend in the other world 
whose resurrection would give me greater pleasure. 

I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased you with what 
you have seen of my Homer. I wish that all English readers had 
your unsophisticated, or rather unadulterated taste, and could relish 
simplicity like you. But I am well aware that in this respect I am 
under a disadvantage, and that many, especially many ladies, 
missing many turns and prettinesses of expression that they have 
admired in Pope, will account my translation in those particulars 
defective. But I comfort myself with the thought, that in reality 
it is no defect ; on the contrary, that the want of all such embellish- 
ments as do not belong to the original, will be one of its principal 
merits with persons indeed capable of relishing Homer. He is the 
best Poet that ever lived for many reasons, but for none more than 
for that majestic plainness that distinguishes him from all others. 
As an accomplished person moves gracefully without thinking of 
it, in like manner the dignity of Homer seems to cost him no labour. 
It was natural to him to say great things, and to saj' them well, and 
little ornaments were beneath his notice. If Maty, my dearest 
cousin, should return to you my copy with any such strictures as 
may make it necessary for me to see it again before it goes to 
Johnson, in that case you shall send it to me ; otherwise to 
Johnson immediately : for he writes me word he wishes his friend 
to go to work upon it as soon as possible. When you come, my 
dear, we will hang all these critics together, for they have worried 
me without remorse or conscience, at least one of them has: I had 
actually murthered more than a few of the best lines in the speci- 
men, in compliance with his requisitions, but plucked up my cou- 
rage at last, and in the very last opportunity that I had, recovered 
them to life again by restoring the original reading. At the same 
time I readily confess that the specimen is the better for all this 
discipline its autlior has undergone ; but then it has been more in- 
debted for its improvement to tliat pointed accuracy of examina- 
tion, to which I was myself excited, than to any proposed amend- 
ments from Mr. Critic ; for as sure as you are my cousin, whom 

VOL. I. o 



'JS LIFE OF COWPER. 

I long to see at OIney, io surely would he have done uie irrepara- 
ble mischief, if I would have given him leave. 

My friend Bagot writes to me in a most friendly strain, and 
calls loudly upon me for original poetry* When I shall have done 
with Homer, probably he will not call in vain ; having found th« 
prime feather of a SAvan on the banks of the snug and silver Trentf 
he keeps it for me. Adieu, dear cousin. 

W. C. 

I am sorry that the General has such indifferent health. He 
must net die. I can by no means spare a person so kind to me* 



LETTER XLIX. 
To Lady HESKETH* 

Olncy, March 6, 1786^ 
My dearest Cousin, 

Your opinion has more weight with m6 
than that of all the critics in the world, and to give you a proof 
of it, I make you a concession that I would hardly have made to 
them all united. I do not, indeed, absolutely covenant, promise, 
and agree, that I will discard all my elisions, but I hereby bind 
myself to dismiss as many of them, as, without sacrificing energy 
to sound, I can. It is incumbent upon me, in the mean time, to say 
something in justification of the few that I shall retain, that I may 
not seem a Poet mounted rather on a mule than on Pegasus. Irt 
the first place. The, is a barbarism. We are indebted for it to the 
Celts, or the Goths, or to the Saxons, or perhaps to them all. In 
the two best languages that ever were spoken, the Greek and the 
Latin, there is no similar incumbrance of expression to be found. 
Secondly, the perpetual use of it in our language is, to us miser- 
able poets, attended with two great inconveniences. Our verse 
consisting only of ten syllables, it not unfrequently happens, that 
the fifth part of a line is to be engrossed, and necessarily too, 
(unless elision prevents it) by this abominable intruder ; and which 
is worse in my account, open vowels are continually the conse- 
quence: — The element — The air. Sec. Thirdly, the French, who 
are equally with the English chargeable with barbarism in this par- 
ticidar, dispose of their Le and their La without ceremony, and 
always take care that they shall be absorbed, both in verse and ill 
prose, in the vowel that immediately follows them. Fourthly, and 
I believe lastly, (and for your sake I wish it may prove so) the 
practice of cutting short a The is warranted by Milton, who, of 
all English poets that ever lived, had certainly the finest ear. Dr. 
Warton indeed has dared to say that lie had a bad one, for which 



LIFE OF COWPER. 99 

he deserves, as far as critical demerit can deserve it, to lose his 
own. I thought I had done, but there is still a fifthly behind, and it 
is this ; that the custom of abbreviating The belongs to tlie stile in 
which, in my advertisement annexed to the specimen, I profess to 
■write. The use of that stile w^ould have warranted me in the 
practice of much gi-eater liberty of this sort than I ever intended to 
take. In perfect consistence with that stile I might say I' th' tem- 
pest, r th' door-way, 8cc, which, however, I would not allow my- 
self to do, because I was aware that it would be objected to, and 
•with reason. But it seems to me, for the causes above said, that 
when I shorten 7%?, before a vowel, or before wA, as in the line 
you mention, 

" Than th' whole broad Hellespont in all his parts," 

my licence is not equally exceptionable. Because W^ though he 
rank as a consonant in the word ivhole^ is not allowed to announce 
himself to the ear, and H is an aspirate. But as I said at the be- 
ginning, so say I still, I am most willing to conform myself to your 
very sensible observation, that it is necessary, if we would please, 
to consult the taste of our own day. Neither would I have pelted 
you, my dearest cousin, with any part of this volley of good rea- 
sons, had I not designed them as an answer to those objections 
"which you say you liave heard from others. But I only mention 
them. Though satisfactory to myself, I wave them, and will al- 
low to The his wliole dimensions, whensoever it can be done. 

Thou only Critic of my verse that is to be found in all the earth 
whom I love, what shall I say in answer to your own objection to 
that passage — 

" Softly he placed his hand 
" On th' old man's liand, and push'd it gently away." 

I can say neither more nor less than this, that when our dear 
friend the General sent me his opinion of the specimen, quoting 
those veiy words from it, he added, " With this part I was par- 
ticularly pleased: there is nothing in poetry more descriptive." 
Such were his very words. Taste, my dear, is various ; there is 
nothing so various, and even between persons of the best taste there 
are diversities of opinion on the same subject, for whicli it is not 
possible to account. So much for these matters. 

You advise me to consult the General, and to confide in him, 
I follow your advice, and liave done both. By the last post I 
asked his permission to send him the Books of my Homer, as fast 
as I should finish them off. I shall be glad of his remarks, and 
more glad than of any thing, to do that wliich I hope may be agree •- 



100 LIFE OF COWPER. 

able to him. Tliey "will of course pass into your hands before they 
are sent to Johnson. The quire that I sent is now in the hands of 
Johnson's friend. I intended to have told you in my last, but for- 
got it, that Johnson behaves very handsomely in the affair of my 
two volumes. He acts with a liberality not often found in persons 
of his occupation, and to mention it when occasion calls me to it, is 
a justice due to him. 

I am very much pleased with Mr. Stanley's letter — several com- 
pliments were paid me on the subject of that first volume by my 
own friends, but I do not recollect that I ever knew the opinion of 
a stranger about it before, whether favourable or otherwise : I only 
heard by a side wind that it was very much read in Scotland, and 
more than here. 

Farewell, my dearest cousin, whom we expect, of whom we 
talk continually, and whom we continually long for. 

W. C 

Your anxious wishes for my success delight me, and you niay 
rest assured, my dear, that I have all the ambition on the subject 
that you can wish me to feel. I more than admire my author. I 
often stand astonished at his beauties. I am for ever amused with 
the translation of him, and I have received a thousand encouragcr 
ments. These are all so many happy omens that, I Uope, shall be 
yerified by the event. 



LETTER L. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

JfirilS, 1786. 
I did, as you suppose, bestow all possible con- 
sideration on the subject of an apology for my Homerican under- 
taking. I turned the matter about in my mind an hundred dif- 
ferent ways, and in every way in which it would present itself, 
found it an impracticable business. It is impossible for me, with 
what delicacy soever I may manage it, to state the objections that 
lie against Pope's translation, without incurring odium, and the 
imputation of arrogance : foreseeing this danger, I choose to say 
nothing. 

W. C. 
P. S. You may well wonder at my courage, who have under- 
taken a work of such enormous length. You would wonder more 
if you knew that I translated the whole Iliad with no other help 
than a Clavis. But I have since equipped myself better for this 
immense journey, and am revising the work in company with a 
good commentator. 



\ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 101 

LETTER LT. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olney, Ajiril 17, 17SS. 
If j-ou will not quote Solomon, nij- dearest 
cousin, I will. He says, and as beautifully as trul}- — " Hope de- 
ferred maketh the heart sick, but when the desire cometh, it is a 
tree of life!" I feel how much reason he had on his side when 
he made this observation, and am myself sick of your fortnijjlifs 
delay. 

The Vicarage was built by Lord Dartmouth, and was not 
finished till some time after we arrived at Olney ; consequently it 
is new. It is a smart stone building, well sashed, by much too 
good for the living, but just what I would wish for you. It has, 
as you justly concluded from my premises, a garden, but rather 
calculated for use than ornament. It is square, and well walled, 
but has neither arbour nor alcove, nor other shade, except the 
shadow of the house. But we have two gardens, which are yours. 
Between your mansion and ours is interposed nothing but an or- 
chard, into which a door, opening out of our garden, affords us 
the easiest communication imaginable, will save the round about 
by the town, and make both houses one. Your chamber windows 
look over the river, and over the meadows, to a village called 
Emberton, and command the whole length of a long bridge, de- 
scribed by a certain Poet, together with a view of the road at a 
distance. Should you wish for books at Olney, you must bring 
them with you, or }0u will wish in vain ; for I have none but the 
works of a certain Poet, Cowper, of whom, perhaps, you have 
heard, and they are as yet but two volumes. They may multiply 
hereafter, but at present they are no more. 

You are the first person for whom I have heard Mrs. Unwin 
express such feelings as she does for you. She is not profuse in 
professions, nor forward to enter into treaties of friendship with 
new faces ; but when her friendship is once engaged, it may be 
confided in even unto death. She loves you already, and how 
much more will she love you before this time twehemonth ! I 
have indeed endeavoured to describe you to her ; Init perfectly as 
I have you by heart, I am sensi!)le that my picture cannot do you 
justice: I never saw one that did. Be you what you may, you are 
much Ijeloved, and will be so at Olney ; and Mrs. Unwin expects 
you with the pleasure that one feels at the return of a long absent, 
«lear relation ; that is to say, with a pleasure such as mine. She 
sends you her warmest aflTcctions, 



102 LIFE OF COWPER. 

On Friday I received a letter from dear Anonymous, apprising 
me of a parcel that the coach would bring me on Saturday. Who 
is there in the world that has, or thinks he has, reason to love me 
to the degree that he does? But it is no matter. He chooses to be 
luiknown, and his choice is and ever shall be so sacred to me, that 
if his name lay on the table before me reversed, I would not turn 
the paper about that I might read it. Much as it would gratify 
me to thank him, I would turn my eyes away from the forbidden 
discovery. I long to assure him that those same eyes, concerning 
which he expresses such kind apprehensions least they should 
suffer by this laborious undertaking, are as well as I eould expect 
them to be, if I were never to touch either book or pen. Subject 
to weakness, and occasional slight inflammations, it is pi-obable 
that they will always be ; but I cannot remember the time when 
they enjoyed any thing so like an exemption from those infirmities 
as at present. One would almost suppose that reading Homer 
were the best opthalmic in the world. I should be happy to re- 
move his solicitude on the subject, but it is a pleasure that he will 
not let me enjoy. Well, then, I will be content without it ; and 
so content, that though I believe you, my dear, to be in full pos- 
session of all this mystery, you shall never know me while you 
live, either directly, or by hints of any sort, attempt to extort 
or to steal the secret from you. I should think myself as justly 
punishable as the Bethshemites, for looking into the ark which 
they were not allowed to touch. 

I have not sent for Kerr, for Kerr can do nothing but send me 
to Bath, and to Bath I cannot go for a thousand reasons. The 
summer will set me up again; I grow fat every day, and shall 
be as big as Gog, or Magog, or both put together, before you 
come. 

I did actually live three years with Mr. Chapman, a Solicitor, 
tliat is to say, I slept three years in his house, but I lived, that is 
to say, I spent my days, in Southampton-Row, as you very well 
remember. There was I, and the future Lord Chancellor, con- 
stantly employed, from morning to night, in giggling, and mak- 
ing giggle, instead of stud\ ing the law. O fie, cousin, how could 
you do so ? I am pleased Avith Lord Thurlow's inquiries about me. 
if he takes it into that inimitable head of his, he may make a 
man of me yet. I could love him heartily, if he would but de- 
serve it at my hands. That I did so once, is certain. The 

Dutchess of , who in the Avorld set her agoing ? But if all the 

Dutchesses in the Avovld were spinning, like so many whirligigs, for 
iny benefit, I would not stop them. It is a noble thing to be a Poet, 
ii makes all the world so lively. I might have preached more 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 103 

serm6ns than even Tillotson did, and better, and the world 
would have been still fast asleep ; but a volume of verse is a fiddle 
that puts the universe in motion. VV. C. 



LETTER Ln. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olncij^ AjirU2i, 1786. 

Your letters are so much my comfort that 
1 often ti emblc least by any accident I sliould be disappointed ; and 
the more, because you have been, more than once, so engaged in 
company on the writing day, that I have had a narrow escape. 
Let me give you a piece of good counsel, my cousin : Follow my 
laudable example — write when you can — take time's forelock in 
one hand, and a pen in the other, and so iHake sure of your op- 
portunity. It is well for me that you write faster than any body, 
and more in an hour than other people in two, else I know not 
what would become of me. When I read your letters I hear yovi 
talk, and I love talking letters dearly, especially from you. Well, 
the middle of June will not be always a thousand years off, and 
when it comes I shall hear you, and see you too, and shall not 
care a farthing then if you do not touch a pen in a month. By the 
way, you must either send m:e or bring me some more paper, for 
before the moon shall have performed a few more revolutions, I 
shall not have a sctap left ; and tedious revolutions they ai'e just 
now, that is certain. 

I give you leave to be as peremptory as you please, especially 
at a distance ; but when you say that you are a Cowper, (and the 
better it is for the Cowpers that such you are, and I give them joy 
of you with all my heart) you must not forget that I boast myself 
-a Co\vper too, and have my humours, and fancies, and purposes, 
and determinations, as well as others of my name, and hold them 
as fast as they can. You indeed tell me how often I shall see you 
Ivhen yoii come. A pretty story truly. I am a He Cowper, my 
dear, and claim the privileges that belong to my noble sex. But 
these matters shall be settled, as my cousirx Agamemnon used to 
say, at a more convenient time. 

I shall rejoice to see the letter you promise me ; for though I 
met with a morsel of praise last week, I do not know that the week 
current is likely to produce me any; and having lately been pretty 
much pampered with that diet, I expect to find myself rather 
hungry by the time when your next letter shall arrive. It will 
tlierefore be very opportune. The morsel above alluded to came 
from — whom do you think? From ; but she desires that her 



104 LitE OF COWPfiRi 

authorship may be a secret. And in my answer I promised not td 
divulge it, except to you. It is a pretty copy of verses nfeatly 
written, and well turned, and when you come you shall see them* 
I intend to keep all pretty things to myself till then, that they may 
serve me as a bait to lure you hither more effectually. The last 

letter that I had from , I received so many years since, that it 

seems as if it had reached me a good while before I was boi'u. 

I was grieved at the heart that the General could not come, and 
that illness was in part the cause that hindered him. I have sent 
him, by his express desire, a new edition of the first boot, and half 
tlie second. He would not suffer me to send it to you, my dear, 
least you should post it away to Maty at once. He did not give 
that reason, but being shrewd, I found it. 

The grass begins to grow, and the leaves to bud, and every thing 
is preparing to be beautiful against you come. Adieu. 

W.C. 

You inquire of our walks, I perceive, as well as of our rides. 
They ai-e beautiful. You inquire also concerning a cellar. You 
have two cellars. Oh! what years have passed since we took the 
same walks, and drank out of the same bottle ! but a few moi'e 
Avceks, and then ! 



1.ETTER LIII. 
To Lady HElSKETH. 

Olney^ May 8, 1786* 
1 did not at all doubt that your tenderness 
for my feelings had Inclined you to suppress in your letters to me 
the intelligence concerning Maty's critique, that yet reached me 
fi-om another quarter. \Vlien I wrote to you I had not learned it 
fi-om the General, but from my friend Bull, who only knew it by 
hear-say. The next post brought me the news of it from the first 
mentioned, and the critique itself inclosed. Together with it 
came also a squib discharged against me in the Public Advertiser. 
The General's letter found me in one of nriy most melancholy 
moods, and my spirits did not rise on the receipt of it. The 
letter, indeed, that he had cut from tlie news-paper gave mc 
little pain, both because it contained nothing formidable, though 
written with malevolence enough, and because a nameless author 
can have no more weight with his readers than the reason which 
he has on his side can give him. But Maty's animadversions hurt 
me more. In part they appeared to me unjust, and in part ill- 
natured; and yet the man himself being an oracle in every body's 
account, I apprehended that he had done me much mischief. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 105 

Why he says that the translation is far from exact, is best known 
to himself: for I know it to be as exact as is compatible with 
poetry; and prose translations of Homer are not wanted; the 
world has one already. But I will not fill my letter to you with 
hypercriticisms ; I will only add an extract from a letter of Col- 
man's, that I received last Friday, and will then dismiss the sub- 
ject. It came accompanied by a copy of the specimen, which he 
himself had amended, and with so much taste and candour that it 
charmed me. He says as follows : 

" One copy I have returned, with some remarks, prompted by 
my zeal for your success; not, Heaven knows, by arrogance or 
impertinence. I know no other way, at once so plain and so short, 
of delivering my thoughts on the specimen of your translation, 
which, on the whole, I admire exceedingly ; thinking it breathes 
the spirit, and conveys the manner of the original; though hav- 
ing here neither Homer, nor Pope's Homer, I cannot speak pre- 
cisely of particular lines or expressions, or compare your blank 
verse with his rhyme, except by declaring, that I think blank 
verse infinitely more congenial to the magnificent simplicity of Ho- 
mer's hexameters, than the confined couplets, and the jingle of 
rhyme." 

His amendments are chiefly bestowed on the lines encumbered 
with elisions ; and I will just take this opportunity to tell you, my 
dear, because I know you to be as much interested in what I write 
as myself, that some of the most offensive of these elisions were 
occasioned by mere criticism. I was fairly hunted into them by- 
vexatious objections made without end by and his friend, and 

altered, and altered, till at last I did not care how I altered. 

Many thanks for ^'s verses, which deserve just the character 

you give of them : they are neat and easy — ^but I would mumble 
her well if I could get at her, for allowing herself to suppose for a 
moment that I praised the Chancellor with a view to emolument. 
I wrote those stanzas merely for my own amusement, and they 
slept in a dark closet years after I composed them ; not in the 
least designed for publication. But when Johnson had printed off 
the longer pieces of which the first volume principally consists, he 
wrote me word that he wanted yet two thousand lines to swell 
it to a proper size. On that occasion it was, that I collected every 
scrap of verse that I could find, and that among the rest. None of 
the smaller poems had been introduced, or had been published at 
all with my name, but for this necessity. 

Just as I wrote the last word, I was called down to Dr. Kerr, 
who came to pay me a voluntary visit. Were I sick, his cheerful 
and fi-icndly manner would almost restore me. Air and exer- 

VOL. I. P 



106 LIFE OF COWPER. 

cise are his therae ; tliem he recommends as the best physic for 
me, and in all weathers. Come, therefore, my dear, and take a 
little of this good physic with me, for you will find it beneficial as 
well as I ; come and assist Mrs. Unwin in the re-establishment of 
your cousin's health. Air and exercise, and she and you together, 
will make me a perfect Samson. You will have a good house over 
your head, comfortable apartments, obliging neighbours, good roads, 
a pleasant country, and in us your constant companions, two who 
will love you, and do already love you dearly, and with all our 
hearts. If you are in any danger of trouble, it is from myself, if 
my fits of dejection seize me ; and as often as they do, you will be 
grieved for me : but perhaps by your assistance I shall be able to 
I'esist them better. If there is a creature under Heaven, from 
whose co-operations with Mrs. Unwin I can reasonably expect 
such a blessing, that creature is yourself. I was not without such 
attacks when I lived in London, though at that time they were less 
oppressive ; but in your company I was never unhappy a whole 
day in all my life. 

Of how much importance is an author to himself 1 I return to 
that abominable specimen again, just to notice Maty's impatient 
censure of the repetition that you mention. I mean of the word 
Hand. In the original there is not a repetition of it. But to re- 
peat a word in that manner, and on such an occasion, is by no 
means what he calls it, a modern invention. In Homer I could 
show him many such, and in Virgil they abound. Colman, who ia 
Ills judgment of classical matters is inferior to none, says, '■^ I know 
not ivhy Maty objects to this exfiression.^' I could easily change 
it, but the case standing thus, I know not whether my proud sto- 
mach will condescend so low. I rather feel myself disinclined to it. 

One evening last week Mrs. Unwin and I took our walk to Wes- 
ton, and as we were returning through the grove, opposite the 
house, the Throckmortons presented themselves at the door* 
Tliey are owners of a house at Weston, at present empty. It is a 
very good one, infinitely superior to ours. When we drank cho- 
colate with them, they both expressed their ardent desire that we 
would take it, wishuig to have us for nearer neighbours. If you^ 
my cousin, were not so well provided for as you are, and at our 
very elbow, I verily believe I should have mustered all my rheto- 
ric to recommend it to you. You might have it for ever without 
danger of ejectment ; whereas your possession of the vicarage de- 
pends on the life of the vicar, who is eighty-six. The environs are 
most beautilul, and the village itself one of the prettiest I ever saw. 
Add to this, you would step immediately into Mr. Throckmorton's 
pAeasure-ground, where you would not soil your slipper even ia 



LIFE OF COWPER, lOT 

"winter. A most unfortunate mistake was made by that gentleman's 
bailiff in his absence. Just before he left Weston last year, for the 
winter, he gave him orders to cut short the tops of the flowering 
shrubs, that lined a serpentine walk in a deliglitful grove, cele- 
brated by my poetship in a little piece that you remember was 
called the " Shrubbery." The dunce, misapprehending the order, 
cut down and faggotted up the whole grove, leaving neither tree, 
bush, nor twig; nothing but stumps about as high as my ankle. 
Mrs. Throckmorton told us that she never saw her husband so 
angry in his life. I judge indeed by his physiognomy, which has 
great sweetness in it, that he is very little addicted to that infernal 
passion ; but had he cudgelled the man for his cruel blunder, and 
the havoc made in consequence of it, I could have excused him. 

I felt myself really concerned for the Chancellor's illness, and 
from what I learned of it, both from the papers and from General 
Co'wper, concluded that he must die. I am accordingly delighted 
in the same proportion with the news of his recovery. May he 
live, and live to be still the support of government 1 If it shall be 
his good pleasure to render me personally any material service, I 
have no objection to it; but Heaven knows that it is impossible 
for any living wight to bestow less thought on that subject than 
jnyself. 

May God be ever with you, my beloved cousin. 

W. C. 



LETTER LIV. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

Olney^ May 15, 1786. 
From this very morning I begin to date 
the last month of our long separation, and confidently, and most 
comfortably hope, that before the loth of June shall present itself, 
we shall have seen each other. Is it not so ? And will it not be 
one of the most extraordinary seras of my extraordinary life ? A 
year ago, we neither corresponded nor expected to meet in this 
world. But this world is a scene of marvellous events, many of 
them more marvellous than fiction itself would dare to hazard; and, 
blessed be God ! they are not all of the distressing kind ; now and 
then, in the course of an existence whose hue is for the most part 
sable, a day turns up that makes amends for many sighs, and many 
subjects of complaint. Such a day shall I account the day of your 
arrival at Olney. 

Wlierefore is it, canst thou tell me, that, together with all 
tjiose delightful sensations to wliich the sight of a long absent 



308 LIFE OF COWPER. 

dear friend gives birth, there is a mixture of something painfiil^ 
FUitterings, and tumults, and I know not what accompaniments of 
our pleasure, that are, in fact, perfectly foreign from the occasion? 
Such I feel when I think of pur meeting, and such, I suppose, feel 
you ; and the nearer the crisis approaches the more I am sensible 
of them. I know, beforehand, that they will increase with eveiy 
turn of the Avheels that shall convey me to Newport, when I shall 
set out to meet you, and that when we actually meet, the pleasure, 
and this unaccountable pain together, will be as much as I shall be 
able to support. I am utterly at a loss for the cause, and can only 
resolve it into that appointment, by which it has been fore-ordained 
that all human delights shall be qualified and mingled with their 
contraries. For there is nothing formidable in you, to me at least, 
there is nothing such. No, not even in your menaces, unless when 
you threaten me to wi'ite no more. Nay, I verily believe, did I 
not know you to be what you are, and had less affection for you 
than I have, I should have fewer of these emotions, of which I 
•would have none if I could help it. But a fig for them all I Let us 
resolve to combat with, and to conquer them. They are dreams, 
they are illusions of the judgment: some enemy that hates the 
happiness of human kind, and is ever industrious to dash it, works 
them in us, and their being so perfectly unreasonable as they are 
is a proof of it. Nothing that is such can be the work of a good 
agent. This I know too by experience, that, like all other illusions, 
they exist only by force of imagination — are indebted for their pre- 
valence to the absence of their object, and in a few moments after 
its appearance cease. So, then, this is a settled point, and the case 
stands thus: You will tremble as you draw near to Newport, and 
so shall I : but we will both recollect that there is no reason why 
■wc should, and this recollection will at least have some little effect 
in our favour. We will likewise both take the comfort of what we 
know to be true, that the tumult will soon cease, and the pleasure 
long survive the pain, even as long, I trust, as we ourselves shall 
survive it. 

What you say of Maty gives me all the consolation that you in- 
tended. We both think it highly proljable that you suggest the 
true cause of his displeasure, when you suppose him mortified at 
not having had a part of the translation laid before him, ere the 
specimen was pulilished. The General was very much hurt, and 
calls his censure harsh and unreasonable. He likev/ise sent me a 
consolatory letter on tlie occasion, in which he took the kindest 
pains to heal the wound that he supposed I might have suffered. I 
?im not naturally insensible, and the sensibilities that I had by na- 
ture have been wonderfully enhanced by a long series of i-hccks. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 109 

given to a frame of nerves that was never very athletic. I feel ac- 
cordingly, whether painful or pleasant, in the extreme — am easily 
elevated, and easily cast down. The frown of a critic freezes my 
poetical powers, and discourages me to a degree that makes me 
ashamed of my own weakness. Yet I presently recover my confi- 
dence again. The half of what you so kindly say in your last, would 
at any time restore my spirits, and being said by you, is infallible. 
I am not ashamed to confess, that having commenced an Author, 
I am most abundantly desirous to succeed as such. / have (what 
jierhafis you little suspect jyie of) in my nature^ an infinite share 
of ambition. But with it, I have, at the same time, as you well 
know, an equal share of diffidence. To this coml)ination of op- 
posite qualities it has been owing, that till lately I stole through 
life without undertaking any thing, yet always wishing to distinguish 
myself. At last I ventured, ventured too in the only path that, at 
so late a period, was yet open to me, and am determined, if God 
liave not determined otherwise, to work my way through the ob- 
scurity that has been so long my portion into notice. Every thing, 
therefore, that seems to threaten this my favourite purpose with 
disappointment, affects me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious 
minds are in the same predicament. He who seeks distinction must 
be sensible of disapprobation exactly in the same proportion as he 
desires applause. And now, my precious cousin, I have unfolded 
my heart to you in this particular without a speck of dissimulation. 
Some people, and good people too, would blame me, but you will 
not, and they I think would blame without just cause. We cer- 
tainly do not honour God when we bury, or when we neglect to im- 
prove as far as we may whatever talent he may ha^^e bestowed on 
us, whether it be little or much. In natural things, as well as in 
spiritual, it is a never-failing truth, that to him who hath^ that is, 
to him who occupies what he hath diligently, and so as to increase 
it, more shall be given. Set me down, therefore, my dear, for an 
industrious rhymer, so long as I shall have the ability ; for in this 
only way is it possible for me, so far as I can see, either to honour 
God, or to serve man, or even to serve myself. 

I rejoice to hear that Mr. Throckmorton wishes to be on a more 
intimate footing. I am shy, and suspect that he is not very much 
otherwise; and the consequence has been, that we have mutually 
wished an acquaintance without being able to accomplish it. Bles- 
sings on you for the hint that you di'opt on the subject of the house 
at Weston ; for the burthen of my song is, since we have met once 
iigain, let us never be separated, as we have been, more. 

W. C. 



110 LIFE OF COWPER, 



LETTER LV. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olney, May 15, 1786* 

I have at length, my cousin, found my 
way into my summer abode. I believe that I described it to you 
some time since, and will therefore now leave it undescribed. I 
will only say that I am writing in a band-box, situated, at least in 
my account, delightfully, because it has a window in one side that 
opens into that orchard through which, as I am sitting here, I 
shall see you often pass, and which, therefore, I already prefer to 
all the'orchards in the Avorld. You do well to prepare me for all 
possible delays, because in this life all sorts of disappointments 
are possible, and I shall do well, if any such delay of your journey 
should happen, to practise that lesson of patience which you incul- 
cate. But it is a lesson which, even with you for my teacher, I 
shall be slow to learn. Being sure, however, that you will not 
procrastinate without cause, I will make myself as easy as I can 
about it, and hope the best. To convince you how much I am 
under discipline and good advice, I will lay aside a favourite mea- 
sure, influenced in doing so by nothing but the good sense of your 
contrary opinion. I had set my heart on meeting you at Newport. 
In my haste to see you once again, I was willing to overlook many 
aukwardnesses I could not but foresee would attend it. I put them 
aside so long as I only foresaw them myself, but since I find that 
you foresee them too, I can no longer deal so slightly with them. 
It is therefore determined that we meet at Olney. Much I shall 
feel, but I will not die if I can help it, and I beg that you will 
take all possible care to outlive it likewise, for I know what it is to 
be balked in the moment of acquisition, and should be loth to know 
it again. 

Last Monday, in the evening, we walked to Weston, according 
to our usual custom. It happened, owing to a mistake of time, 
that we set out half an hour sooner than usual. This mistake we 
discovered while we were in the wilderness; so, finding that we 
had time before us, as they say, Mrs. Unwin proposed that Ave 
should go into the village, and take a view of the house that I had 
just mentioned to you. We did so, and found it such a one as in 
most respects would suit you well. But Moses Brown, our vicar, 
who, as I told you, is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound to 
die for that reason. He said himself, when he was here last sum- 
mer, that he should live ten years longer, and for aught that ap-t 
pears, so he may. In which case, for the sake of its near neigh- 
boui'hood to us, the vicarage has charms for me that no other 



LiFf: OF CX)WPER. Ill 

place can rival. But this, and a thousand things more, shall be 
talked over when you come. 

We have been industriously cultivating our acquaintance with 
our Weston neighbours since I wrote last, and they, on their part, 
have been equally diligent in the same cause. I have a notion 
that we shall all suit well. I see much in them both that I admire. 
You know, perhaps, that they are Catholics. 

It is a delightful bundle of praise, my cousin, that you have 
sent me: all jasmine and lavender. Whoever the lady is, she 
has evidently an admirable pen, and a cultivated mind. If a per- 
son reads, it is no matter in what language ; and if the mind be 
informed, it is no matter whether that mind belongs to a man or a 
woman. The taste and the judgment will receive the benefit alike 
in both. — Long before the Task was published, I made an experi- 
ment one day, being in a frolicksome mood, upon my friend : 
We were walking in the garden, and conversing on a subject 
similar to these lines : — 

The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss. 

And seeking grace t' improve the present good, 

Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 

I repeated them, and said to him with an air of non-chalance, 
"Do you recollect those lines? I have seen them somewhere; 
where are they?" He put on a considering face, and after some 
deliberation replied — " Oh, I will tell you where they must be — ■ 
in the Night Thoughts." I was glad my trial turned out so well, 
and did not undeceive him. I mention this occurrence only in 
confirmation of tlie letter-writer's opinion ; but, at the same time, 
I do assure you, on the faith of an honest man, that I never in my 
life designed an imitation of Young, or of any other writer ; for 
mimicry is my abhorrence, at least in poetiy. 

Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that both for your sake, 
since you make a point of it, and for my own, I will be as philo- 
sophically careful as possible that these fine nerves of mine shall 
not be beyond measure agitated when you arrive. In truth, there 
is much greater probability that they will be benefited, and greatly 
too. Joy of heart, fi'om whatever occasion it may arise, is the 
best of all nervous medicines, and I should not wonder if such a 
turn given to my spirits, should have even a lasting effect, of the 
most advantageous kind, upon them. You must not imagine, nei- 
ther, that I am, on the whole, in any great degree, subject to 
nervous affections ; occasionally I am, and have been these many 
years much liable to dejection. But at intervals, and sometimes 
for an interval of weeks, no creatui-e would suspect it. For I- 



112 LIFE OF COWPER. 

have not that which commonly is a symptom of such a case belong- 
ing to me: I mean extraordinary elevation in the absence of Mr. 
Blue-Devil. When I am in the best health, my tide of animal 
sprightliness flows with great equality, so that I am never, at any 
time, exalted in proportion as I am sometimes depressed. My 
depression has a cause, and if that cause were to cease, I should 
be as cheerful thenceforth, and perhaps for ever, as any man need 
be. But as I have often said, Mrs. Unwin shall be my expositor. 

Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant that our friendship, 
which, while we could see each other, never suffered a moment's 
interruption, and which so long a separation has not in the least 
abated, may glow in us to our last hour, and be renewed in a bet- 
ter world, there to be perpetuated for ever. For you must know 
that I should not love you half so well, if I did not believe you 
would be my friend to eternity. There is not room enough for 
friendship to unfold itself in full bloom, in such a nook of life as 
this. Tliereforc I am, and must, and will be, yours for ever, 

W. C. 



LETTER LVI. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Olney, May 29, 1785. 
Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose 
letters, among all that I receive, have this property peculiarly 
their own, that I expect them without trembling, and never find 
any thing in them that does not give me pleasure ! for which, 
therefore, I would take nothing in exchange that the world could 
give me, save and except that for which I must exchange them 
soon, (and happy shall I be to do so) your own company. That, 
indeed, is delayed a little too long, td my impatience, at least, it 
seems so, who find the spring, backward as it is, too forward, 
because many of its beauties will have faded before you will have 
an opportunity to see them. We took our customary walk yester- 
day in the wilderness at Weston, and saw, with i*egret, the la- 
burnums, syringas, and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and 
others just upon the point of blowing, and could not help observ- 
ing — all these will be gone before Lady Hesketh comes. Still, 
however, there will be roses, and jasmine, and honey-suckle, and 
shady walks, and cool alcoves, and you will partake them with 
us. But I want you to have a: share of every thing that is de- 
lightful here, and cannot bear that the advance of the seasonr 
sliould steal away a single pleasure before you can come to en- 
joy ft. . 



LIFE OF COWPER. 112 

Every day I think of you, and almost all the day long ; I will 
venture to say that even you were never so expected in your life. 
I called last week at the Quaker's to see the furniture of your bed, 
the fame of which had reached me. It is, I assure you, superb, 
of printed cotton, and the subject classical. Every morning you 
will open your eyes on Phxton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring 
his father to grant him the conduct of his chariot for a day. May 
your sleep be as sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and your 
nights, at least, will be well provided for. 

I shall send up the sixth and seventh books of the Iliad shortly, 
and shall address them to you. You will forward them to the Ge- 
neral. I long to show you my workshop, and to see you sitting on 
the opposite side of my table. We shall be as close packed as two 
wax figures in an old-fashioned picture-frame. I am writing in it 
now. It is the place in which I fabricate all my verse in summer 
time. I rose an hour sooner than usual this morning, that I might 
finish my sheet before breakfast, for I must write this day to the 
General. 

The grass under my windows is all bespangled with dew-drops, 
and the birds are singing in the apple-trees among the blossoms. 
Never poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke 
his muse. 

I have made your heart ache too often, my poor dear cousin, 
with talking about my fits of dejection. Something has happened 
that has led me to the subject, or I would have mentioned them 
more sparingly. Do not suppose or suspect that I treat you with 
reserve ; there is nothing in which I am concerned that you shall 
not be made acquainted with. But the tale is too long for a letter. 
I will only add for your present satisfaction, that the cause is not 
exterior, that it is not within the reach of human aid, and that yet 
I have a hope myself, and Mrs. Unwin a strong persuasion, of its 
removal. I am indeed even now, and have been for a considerable 
time, sensible of a change for the better, and expect, with good 
reason, a comfortable lift from you. Guess, then, my beloved 
cousin, with what wishes I look forward to tlie time of your arri- 
val, from whose coming I promise myself not only pleasure, but 
peace of mind, at least an additional share of it. At present it is 
an uncertain and transient guest with me, but the joy with which 
1 shall see and converse with you at Olney may, perhaps, make it 
an abiding one. 

\y. c. 



VOL. I. 



114 LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER LVn. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Obieyy June 4 isf 5, 1786-i.- 
Ah ! my cousin, you begin already to feai*^ 
and quake. What a hero am I, compared with you ! I have no 
fears of you: on the contrary, am as bold as a lion. I wish that 
your carriage were even now at the door: you should soon see 
with how much courage I would face you. But what cause have 
you for fear ? Am I not your cousin, with whom^ you^have wandered 
in the fields of Freemantle, and at Bevis's Mount? Who used to 
read to you, to laugh with you, till our sides have ached, at any 
thing, or nothing? And ami, in these respects, at all altered? 
You will not find me so, but just as ready to laugh and to wander 
as you ever knew me. A cloud, perliaps, may come over me 
now and then for a few hours, but from clouds I was never ex- 
empted. And are not you the identical cousin with whom I have 
performed all these feats ? The very Harriet whom I saw, for the 
first time, at De Grey's, in Norfolk-street? (It was on a Sunday, 
when you came with my uncle and aunt to drink tea there, and I 
had dined there, and was just going back to Westminster.) If 
these things are so, and I am sure that you cannot gainsay a syl- 
lable of them all, then this consequence follows ; that I do not pro- 
mise myself more pleasure from your company than I shall be sure 
to find. Then you are my cousin, in whom I always delighted, 
and in whom I doubt not that I shall delight, even to my latest 
hour. But this wicked coach-maker has sunk my spirits. What 
a miserable thing it is to depend, in any degree, for the accom- 
plishment of a wish, and that wish so fervent, on the punctuality 
of a creature who, I suppose, was never punctual in his hfe!. 
Do tell him, my dear, in order to quicken him, that if he per- 
forms his promise he shall make my coacli when I want one, and 
that if he performs it not, I will most assuredly employ some 
otlier man. 

The Throckmortons sent a note to invite us to dinner — we 
went, and a very agreeable day we had. They made no fuss with 
us, which I was heartily glad to see, for where I give trouble I am 
sure that I cannot be welcome. Themselves, and their chaplain, 
and Ave, were aU the party. After dinner we had mucli. cheerful 
and pleasant talk, the particulars of which might, not, perhaps,, 
be so entertaining upon paper ; therefore, all but one I will omit, 
and that I will mention only because it will of itself be sufficient 
to give j'ou an insight into their opinion on a very important sub- 
ject — their own religion. I happened to say, that in all profes— 



LIFE OF COWPER. lis 

'sions and trades mankind affected an air of mystery. Physicians, I 
T)bserved, in particular, were objects of that remark, who persist 
in prescribing in Latin, many times, no doubt, to the hazard of 
a patient's life, through the ignorance of an apothecary. Mr. 
Throckmorton assented to what I said, and turning to his chap- 
lain, to my infinite surprize, observed to him, " That is Just as 
absurd as our praying in Latin." I could have hugged him for 
his liberality and freedom from bigotry, but thought it rather more 
decent to let the matter pass without any visible notice. I there- 
fore heard it with pleasure, and kept my pleasure to myself. The 
two ladies, in the mean time, were tete-a-tete in the drawing-room. 
Their conversation turned principally (as I afterwards leai-ned 
from Mrs. Unwin) on a most delightful topic, viz. myself. In the 
first place, Mrs. Throckmorton admired my book, from which she 
quoted by heart more than I could repeat, though I so lately wrote 
it. In short, my dear, I cannot proceed to relate what she said 
of the book, and the book's author, for that abominable modesty 
that I cannot even yet get rid of. Let it suffice to say, that you, 
who are disposed to love every body who speaks kindly of your 
cousin, will certainly love Mrs. Throckmorton, when you shall be 
told what she said of him, and that you ivill be told is equally cer- 
tain, because it depends on Mrs. Unwin. It is a vexy convenient 
thing to have a Mrs. Unwin, who will tell you many a good 
and long story for me, that I am not able to tell for myself. I am, 
however, not at all in arrears to my neighbours in the matter of 
admiration and esteem, but the more I know, the more I like 
them, and have neai'ly an affection for them both. I am delighted 
that the Task has so large a share of the approbation of your 
sensible Suffolk friend. 

I received yesterday, from the General, another letter of T. S. 
an unkno\vn auxiliary having started up in my behalf, I believe 
I shall leave the business of answering to him, having no leisure 
myself for controversy. He lies very open to a very effectual 
reply. 

My dearest cousin, adieu! I hope to write to you but once 
more before we meet. But Oh ! this coach-maker, and Oh ! this 
iioliday week ! 

Yours, with impatient desire to see vou, 



116 LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER LVIII. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Olnetj, June 9, 1786, 
My dear Friend, 

The little time that I can devote to any 
other purpose than that of poetry is, as you may suppose, stolen. 
Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much remains undone, and 
no school-boy is more attentive to the performance of his daily task 
than I am. You will therefore excuse mc, if at present I am both 
unfrequent and short. 

The paper tells me that the Chancellor has relapsed, and I am 
truly sorry to hear it. The first attack was dangerous, but a se- 
cond must be more formidable still. It is not probable that I should 
ever hear from him again, if he survive ; yet, of the much that I 
should have felt for him, had our connection never been inter- 
rupted, I still feel much. Every body will feel the loss of a man 
whose abilities have made him of such general importance. 

I correspond again with Col man, and upon the most friendly 
footing, and find in his instance, and in some others, that an inti- 
mate intercourse which has been only casually suspended, not for- 
feited on either side by outrage, is capable not only of revival, but 
improvement. 

I had a letter some time since that gave me great pleasure, from 
your sister Fanny. Such notices from old friends are always plea- 
sant, and of such pleasures I have received many lately. They 
refresh the remembrance of early days, and make me young again. 
The noble institution of the Nonsense Club will be forgotten when 
we are gone, who composed it ; but I often think of your most he- 
roic line, written at one of our meetings, and especially think of 
it when I am translating Homer — 

*' To whom replied the Devil yard-Iong-tail'd." 

There never was any thing more truly Grecian than that triple 
epithet, and were it possible to introduce it into either Iliad or 
Odyssey, I should certainly steal it. 

I am no-w^ -flushed with expectation of Lady Hesketh, who spends 

^, the summei;" i^'ith us. We hope to see her next week. We have 

found admirable lodgings both for her and her suite, and a Quaker 

in this town, still more admirable than they, who, as if he loved 

her as much as I do, furnishes them for her with real elegance. 

W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER; 117 

LETTER LIX. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Olney^ June 9, 1786, 

My dear cousin's arrival has, as it could 

not fail to do, made us happier than we ever were at Olncy. Her 

great kindness in giving us her company is a cordial that I shall 

feel the effect of, not only while she is here, but while I live. 

Olney will not be much longer the place of our habitation. At 
a village, two miles distant, we have hired a house of Mr. Throck- 
morton, a much better than we occupy at present, and yet not 
more expensive. It is situated very near to our most agreeable 
landlord, and his agreeable pleasure grounds. In him, and in his 
wife, we shall find such companions as will always make the time 
pass pleasantly while they are in the country, and his grounds 
will afford us good air, and good walking room in the winter ; two 
advantages which we have not enjoyed at Olney, where I have no 
neighbour with whom I can convei'se, and where, seven months 
in the year, I have been imprisoned by dirty and impassable ways, 
till both my health and Mrs. Unwin's have suffered materially. 

Homer is ever importunate, and will not suffer me to spend half 
the time with my distant friends that I would gladly give them. 

w. c. 



LETTER LX. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Olney ^ Oct. 6, 17«6. 

You have not heard, I suppose, that the 
ninth book of my translation is at the bottom of the Thames. But 
it is even so. A storm overtook it in its way to Kingston, and it 
svmk, together with the whole cargo of the boat in which it was a 
passenger. Not figuratively foreshowing, I hope, by its submer- 
sion, the fate of all the rest. My kind and generous cousin, who 
leaves nothing undone that she thinks can conduce to my comfort, 
encouragement, or convenience, is my transcriber also. kS/ie wrote 
the copy, and she will have to write it again — Hers, therefore, is 
the damage. I have a thousand reasons to lament that the time 
approaches when we must lose her. She has made a winterly 
summer a most delightful one, Init the winter itself we must spend 
without her. 

W. C. 



118 LIFE OF COWPER. 

The letters which I have just imparted to my reader exh ibit a, 
picture so minute and so admirable, of the life, the studies, and 
the affections of Cowper, during the period to which they relate, 
that they require no comment from his biographer. They must 
render all who read them intimately acquainted with the writer, 
and the result of such intimacy must be, what it is at once my 
duty and my delight to promote, an increase of pubiic affection 
for his enchanting character, an effect which all his posthumous 
compositions are excellently suited to extend and confirm. 

It is now incumbent on me to relate the consequences of a visit, 
so fondly expected by the poet, and happily productive of a change 
in his local situation. 

It does not always happen, when the heart and fancy have in- 
dulged themselves with such fervency in a prospect of delight, 
from the renewed society of a long absent friend, it does not al- 
ways happen, that the pleasure, on its arrival, proves exactly 
"what it promised to be on its approach. But in the present case, 
to the honour of the two friends concerned, the delightful vision 
was followed by a reality of delight. Cowper was truly happy in 
receiving and settling his beloved, though long unseen relation, as 
his neighbour: she was comfortably lodged in the vicarage of 
Olney, a mansion so near to his residence, and so commodious 
from the private communication between their two houses, that 
the long separated and most seasonably re -united friends here 
enjoyed all the easy intercourse of a domestic union. 

Cowper derived from this fortunate event not only the advan- 
tage of daily conAcrsation with another cultivated mind, in affec- 
tionate unison with his own, but, as his new neighbour had 
brought her caii'iage and horses to Olney, he was gradually 
tempted to survey, in a wider range, the face of a country that 
he loved, and to mix a little more with its most worthy inhabit- 
ants. His life had been so retired at Olney that he had not even 
extended his excursions to the neighbouring town of Newport-Pag- 
nell, in the course of many years ; but the convenience of a car- 
riage induced him, in August, to visit Mr. Bull, who resided there ; 
the friend to whose assiduous attention he had felt himself much 
oblig-ed in a season of mental depression. A few letters of Cowper 
to this gentleman are so expressive of cordial esteem, and so agree- 
ably illustrate the character of each, that I shall take this oppor- 
tunity of making a short selection from the private papers, of 
which the kindness of the person to whom they are addressed 
has enabled me to avail myself. When Cowper published the fii'st 
volume of his poems, Mr. Bull wrote to him on the occasion. 
The answer of the poet, March 24, 1782, I reserve for a futw^ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 119 

part of my work. A subsequent letter, dated October 27th, in the 
same year, opens with this lively paragraph: — 

" Mon aimable and tres cher Ami, 

" It is not in the power of chaises, or cha- 
riots, to carry you where my affections will not follow you: if I 
heard that you were gone to finish your days in the moon, I should 
not love you the less ; but should contemplate the place of your 
abode as often as it appeared in the Heavens, and say, Farewell, 
my friend, for ever ! Lost, but not forgotten ! Live happy in thy 
lantern, and smoke the remainder of thy pipes in peace I Thou art 
rid of earth, at least of all its cares, and so far can I rejoice in thy 
removal ; and as to the cares that are to be found in the moon, I 
am resolved to suppose them lighter than those below — heavici' 
they can hardly be." 

The letter closes with a sentence that ascei'talns the date of those 
translations from the poetry of Madame Guion which I have already 
mentioned, as executed at the request of Mr. Bull. " Madame 
Guion is finished, but not quite transcribed." In a subsequent 
letter he speaks of these and of other poems. I transcribe the 
passage, and a preceding paragraph, in which he expatiates on 
thunder storms with the feelings of a poet, and with his usual feli- 
city of expression. "I was always an admirer of tliunder stoi-ms, 
even before I knew whose voice I heard in them ; but especially 
an admirer of thunder rolling over the great waters. There is 
something singularly majestic in the sound of it at sea, where the 
eye and the ear have uninterrupted opportunity of observation, and 
the concavity above being made spacious, reflects it with more ad- 
vantage. I have consequently envied you your situation, and the 
enjoyment of those refreshing breezes that belong to it. We have, 
indeed, been regaled Avith some of these bursts of xtherial music. 
The peals have been as loud, by the repoi-t of a gentleman who 
Uved many years in the West-Indies, as were ever heard in those 
islands, and the flashes as splendid : but when the thunder preaches, 
an horizon bounded by the ocean is the only sounding-board." 

" I have had but little leisure, strange as it may seem, and that 
little I devoted for a montli after your departure to Madame Guion. 
I have made fair copies of all the pieces I have produced on this 
last occasion, and will put them into your hands when we meet. 
Tliey are yours, to ser\ e you as you please : you may take and 
leave as you like, for my purpose is already served ; they have 
amused me, and I have no further demand upon them : The lines 
upon. Friendship, however, which were not sufficiently of a piece 



120 LIFE OF COWPER. 

with the others, will not now be wanted. I have some other little 
things, which I will communicate, when time shall serve ; but I 
cannot now transcribe them." 

What the author here modestly calls " The Lines on Friend- 
ship," I regard as one of the most admirable among his minor 
poems. Mr. Bull, who has been induced to print the translations 
from Madame Guion, by an apprehension of their being surrepti- 
tiously and inaccurately published, has inserted these stanzas on 
Friendship, in the little volume that he has recently imparted to 
the public from the press of Newport-Pagliell ; but as the poem is 
singularly beautiful, and seems to have been re-touched by its au- 
thor, with an attention proportioned to its merit, I shall introduce 
it here in a corrected state, and notice such variations as I find ia 
the two copies before me. 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 

Amicitia nisi inter bonos esse non potest. Cicero. 
1. 
What virtue can we name, or grace, 
But men unqualified and base 

Will boast it their possession ? 
Profusion apes the noble part 
Of liberality of heart, 

And dulness of discretion. 
2. 
But as the gem of richest cost 
Is ever counterfeited most ; 

So always imitation 
Employs the utmost skill she can 
To counterfeit the faithful man, 

The friend of long duration. 



VARIATIONS. 

I. — 1. What virtue, or what mental grace, 

II. — If ev'ry polish'd gem we find, 
Illuminating heart or mind, 

Provoke to imitation, 
No wonder friendship does the same, 
That jewel of the purest flame, 

Or rather constellation. 



4 



•■^- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 121 



Some will pronounce me too severe, 
But long experience speaks me clear, 

Therefore, that censure scorning, 
I will proceed to mark the shelves 
On which so many dash themselves, 

And give the simple warning. 
4. 
Youth, unadmonish'dby a guide. 
Will trust to any fair outside — 

An error soon corrected I 
For who but learns, with riper years, 
That man, when smoothest he appears, 

Is most to be suspected ? 
5. 
But here again a danger lies ; 
Lest, thus deluded by our eyes. 

And taking ti*ash for treasure, 
We should, when undeceiv'd, conclude 
Friendship imaginary good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure. 
6. 
An acquisition rather rare 
Is yet no subject of despair : 

Nor should it seem distressful. 
If either on forbidden ground, 
Or where it was not to be found. 

We sought it unsuccessful. 



VARIATIONS. 

III. — No knave, but boldly will pretend 
The requisites that form a friend, 

A real and a sound one ; 
Nor any fool he would deceive. 
But prove as ready to believe, 

And dream that he has found one. 

IV. — 1. Candid, and generous, and just, 

2. Boys care but little whom they trust. 

V. — 2. Lest, having misemploy'd our eyes, 

4. We should unwarily conclude 

5. Friendship a false ideal good. 

VI. — 3. Nor is it wise complaining, 

6. We sought without attaining. 
VOL. I. R 



122 LIFE OF COWPER. 

r. 

No friendship will abide the test 
That stands on sordid interest 

And mean self-love erected ; 
Nor such, as may awhile subsist 
'Twixt sensualist and sensualist, 

For vicious ends connected. 
8. 
Who hopes a friend, should have a heart 
Himself, well furnish'd for the part, 

And ready, on occasion, 
To show the virtue that he seeks ; 
For 'tis an union that bespeaks 

A just reciprocation. 
9. 
A fretftd temper wiU divide 
The closest knot that may be tied, 

By ceaseless sharp corrosion : 
A temper passionate and fierce 
May suddenly your joys disperse 

At one immense explosion. 



VARIATIONS. 

VII. — 5. Between the sot and sensualist. 

VIII. — Who seeks a friend, should come dispos'd 
T' exhibit, in full bloom disclos'd, 

The graces and the beauties 
That form the character he seeks, 
For 'tis an union that bespeaks 

Reciprocated duties. 

Mutual attention is implied. 
And equal truth on either side. 

And constantly supported : 
'Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse 
Another of sinister views. 

Our own as much distorted. 

But will .sincerity suffice ? 

It is, indeed, above all price, 

And must be made the basis ; 
But ev'ry virtue of the soul 
Must constitute the charming wholSj 

All shining in their places. 



\ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 12^ 

10. 

In vain the talkative unite 

With hope of permanent delight: 

The secret just committed 
They drop, through mere desire to prate> 
Forgetting its important weight, 

And by themselves outwitted. 
11. 
How bright soe'er the prospect seems, 
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, 

If envy chance to creep in. 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
May prove a dang'rous foe indeed, 

But not a friend worth keeping. 
12, 
As envy pines at good possess'd, 
So jealousy looks forth distress'd, 

On good that seems approaching; 
And, if success his steps attend, 
Piscems a rival in a friend, 

And hates him for encroachinga 
13. 
Hence authors of illustrious name, 
Unless belied by common fame, 

Are sadly prone to quarrel ! 
To deem the wit a friend displays 
So much of loss to their o^vn praise, 

And pluck each other's laurel. 
14. 
A man, renown 'd for repartee. 
Will seldom scruple to make free 

With friendship's finest feeling; 
Will thrust a dagger at your bi'east. 
And tell you, 'twas a special jest, 

By way of balm for healing. 
15. 
Beware of tattlers ! keep your ear 
Close stopt against the tales they bear, 

Fruits of their own invention ! 



VARIATIONS. 

XIV. — 5. And say he wounded you in jest. 



to 



124 LIFE OF COWPER. 

The separation of chief friends 
Is what their kindness most intends ; 
Their sport is your dissension. 
16. 
Friendship, that wantonly admits 
A joco-serious play of wits 
In brilliant altercation, 
Is union such as indicates, 
Like hand-in-hand insurance plates, 
Danger of conflagration. 
17. 
Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
True as the needle to the pole ; 

Yet shifting like the weather. 
The needle's constancy forego 
For any novelty, and show 
Its variations rather. 
18. 
Insensibility makes some 
Unseasonably deaf and dumb. 

When most you need their pity. 
'Tis waiting till the tears shall fall 
From Gog and Magog in Guildhall, 
Those playthings of the city.* 



VARIATIONS. 

XV. — Who keeps an open ear 

For tattlers, will be sure to heat 

The trumpet of invention, 
Aspersion is the babbler's trade. 
To listen is to lend him aid, 

And rush into contention. 

XVI. — 1. A friendship, that in frequent fits 
Of controversial rage emits 
The sparks of disputation. 

XVII. — 3. Their humour yet so various. 

They manifest their whole life through 
The needle's deviation too ; 
Their love is so precarious. 



• Tliis was written before the removal of thein. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 125 

19. 
The gi'eat and small but rarely meet 
On terms of amity complete. 

Th' attempt would scarce be madder, 
Should any, from the bottom, hope 
At one huge stride to reach the top 

Of an erected ladder. 
20. 
Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
Their het'rogeneous politics 

Without an effervescence, 
Such as of salts with lemon-juice, 
But which is rarely known t' induce, 

Like that, a coalescence. 
21. 
Religion should extinguish strife, 
And make a calm of human life. 

But even those who differ 
Only on topics left at large. 
How fiercely will they meet and charge ! 

No combatants are stiffer. 
22. 
To prove, alas ! my main intent, 
Needs no great cost of argument. 

No cutting and contriving. 

VARIATIONS. 
XIX. — 3. Plebeians must surrender. 

And yield so much to noble folk. 

It is combining fire with smoke. 

Obscurity with splendour. 

Some are so placid and serene 
(As Irish bogs are always green), 

They sleep secure from waking, 
And are, indeed, a bog that bears 
Your unparticipated cares 

Unmov'd, and without quaking. 

XX, — 4. Like that of salts with lemon-juice, 
Which does not yet like that produce 
A friendly coalescence. 

XXI. — 4. On points which God has left at large, 

XXII. — 1. To prove at last my main intent 
Needs no expense of argument. 



m 



126 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Seeking a real friend, we seem 

T' adopt the chemist's golden dream, 

With still less hope of thriving. 
23. 
Then judge, before you choose your matt* 
As circumspectly as you can ; 

And, having made election, 
See that no disrespect of yours, 
Such as a friend but iU endures. 
Enfeeble his affection. 

24. 
It is not timber, lead and stone, 
An architect requires alone 

To finish a great building ; 
The palace were but half complete, 
Could he by any chance forget 

The carving and the gilding. 
25. 
As similarity of mind, 
Or something not to be defin'd. 

First rivets our attention j 



VARIATIONS. 

Sometimes the fault is all your own, 
Some blemish in due time made knoivn 

By trespass or omission : 
Sometimes occasion brings to light 
Our friend's defect, long hid from sight. 

And even from suspicion. 

XXIII. — 1. Then judge yourself, and prove your man. 
4. Beware no negligence of yours. 

That secrets are a sacred trust. 

That friends should be sincere and just. 

That constancy befits them. 
Are observations on the case. 
That savour much of common-place, 

And all the world admits them. 

XXIV. — 1. But 'tis not timber, lead and stone. 

3. To finish a fine building. 
.5. If he could possibly forgets 

XXV. — 3. First fixes our attention. 



LIFE OF COWPER* 12? 



So manners decent and polite, 
The same we practis'd at first sight. 
Must save it from declension. 
26. 
The man who hails you Tom or Jack, 
And proves, by thumpmg on your back, 

His sense of your great merit, 
Is such a friend that one had need 
Be very much his friend indeed, 
To pardon or to bear it. 
27. 
Some friends make this their prudent plan- 
Say little, and hear all you can — 

Safe policy, but hateful ! 
So barren sands imbibe the show'r, 
But render neither fruit nor flow'r— 
Unpleasant and ungrateful. 
28. 
They whisper trivial things, and small j 
But to communicate at all 

Things serious, deem improper. 
Their feculence and froth they show, 
But keep their best contents below, 
Just like a simm'ring copper. 
29. 
These samples (for, alas! at last 
These are but samples, and a taste 
Of evils yet unmention'd) 



VARIATIONS. 

XXVI.— 1. The man that hails you Tom or Jack, 

And proves, by thumps upon your back, 
How he esteems your merit. 

XXVII. — 1. Some act upon this prudent plan. 

XXVIII. — The man I trust, if shy to me, 
Shall find me as reserv'd as he : 
No subterfuge or pleading 
Shall win my confidence again ; 
I will by no means entertain 
A spy on my proceeding. 

XXIX.— Pursue the search, and you will find 

Good sense and knowledge of manlynil. 



12S LIFE OF COWPER. 

May prove the task a task indeed, 
In which 'tis miich if we succeed, 

However well intention'd. 
30. 
Pursue the theme, and you sliall find 
A disciplin'd and furnish'd mind 

To be at least expedient ; 
And, after summing all the rest, 
Religion ruling in the breast 

A principal ingredient. 
31. 
True friendship has, in short, a grace 
More than terrestrial in its face, 

That proves it Heaven-descended. 
Man's love of woman not so pure, 
Nor when sincerest, so secure. 

To last till life is ended. 



VARIATIONS. 

The noblest friendship ever shown 
The Saviour's history makes known, 

Though some have turn'd and turn'd it. 
And, whether being craz'd or blind. 
Or seeking with a bias'd mind. 

Have not, it seems, discern'd it. 

O friendship, if my soul forego 
Thy dear delights while here below, 

To mortify and grieve me, 
May I myself at last appear 
Unworthy, base, and insincere. 

Or may my friend deceive me ! 



This sprightly little poem contains the essence of all that ha* 
been said on this interesting subject, by the best writers of differ- 
ent countries. It is pleasing to reflect, that a man who enter- 
tained such refined ideas of friendship, and expressed them so hap- 
pily, was singularly fortunate in this very important article of hu- 
man life. Indeed, he was fortunate in this respect to such a degree, 
that Providence seems to have supplied him most unexpectedly, at 
different periods of his troubled existence, Avith exactly such friends 
as the peculiar exigences of his situation required. The truth of 
this remark is exemplified in the seasonable assistance that his 
tender spix-its derived from the kindoess of Mrs, Unwin, at Hun* 



LIFE OF COWPER. 329 

iingdon ; of Lady Austen, and Lady Hesketh, at Olney, and of his 
youn"- kinsman in Norfolk, who will soon attract the notice and 
obtain the esteem of my reader, as the affectionate superintendent 
of Co\vper's declining days. To the honour of human nature, and 
of the present times, it will appear, that a sequestered poet, pre- 
eminent in genius and calamity, was beloved and assisted by his 
friends of both sexes, with a purity of zeal, and an inexhaustible 
ardonr of affection, more resembling the friendship of the heroic 
ages, than the precarious attachments of the modern woi'ld. 

The visit of Lady Hesketh, to Olney, led to a very favourable 
change in the residence of Cowper. He had now passed nineteen 
yeax's in a scene that was far ft-om suiting him. The house he in- 
habited looked on a market-place, and orice, in a season of illness, 
he was so apprehensive of being incommoded by the bustie of a 
fair, that he requested to lodge, for a single night, under the roof 
of his friend, Mr. Newton ; and he was tempted, by the more com- 
fortable situation of the vicarage, to remain fourteen months in the 
house of his benevolent neighbour. His intimacy with this vener- 
able Divine was so great, that Mr. Newton has described it in the 
following remarkable terms, in Memoirs of the Poet, which afi'ec- 
tion induced him to begin, but which the troubles and infirmities 
of very advanced hfe ha\"e obliged him to relinquish. 

" For nearly twelve years we were seldom separated for seven 
hours at a time, when we were awake, and at home : — The first 
six I passed in daily admiring, and aiming to imitate him: dur- 
ing the second six, I walked pensively with him in the valley of 
the shadow of death." 

Mr. Newton records, with a becoming satisfaction, tlie evan- 
gelical charity of his friend: " He loved the poor," says his de- 
vout Memorialist : " He often visited them in their cottages, con- 
versed with them in the most condescending manner, sympathized 
widi them, counselled and comforted them in their distresses; 
and those who were seriously disposed were often cheered and ani- 
mated by his prayers!"-^ After the removal of Mr. Newton to 
London, and the departure of Lad)^ Austen, Olney had no par- 
ticular attractions for Cowper ; and Lady Hesketh was happy in 
promoting the project, which had occurred to him, of removing 
with Mrs. Unwin, to the near and pleasant village of Weston. A 
scene highly favourable to his health and amusement t For, with 
a very comfortable mansion, it afl^orded him a garden, and a field 
of considerable extent, which he delighted to cultivate and embel- 
lish. With these he had advantages still more desirable — easy, 
perpetual access to the spacirus and tranquil pleasure grounds of 
his accomplished and benevolent landlord, Mr. Throckmorton, 
yOL. I. s 



130 LIFE OF COWPER. 

whose neighbouring house supplied him with society peculiai'ly 
suitecl to his gentle and delicate spirit. 

He removed from Olney to Weston in November, 1786. The 
course of his life in his new situation (the spot most pleasing to his 
fancy) will be best described by the subsequent series of his letters 
to that amiable relation to whom he considered himself as particu- 
larly indebted for this improvement in his domestic scenery. With 
these I shall occasionally connect a selection of his letters to pai'ti- 
cular friends, and particularly the letters addressed to one of his 
most intimate correspondents, who happily commenced an acquaint- 
ance with the poet in the beginning of the year 1787. I add with 
pleasure tlie name of Mr. Rose, the Barrister, whose friendsliip I 
was so fortunate as to share, by meeting him at Weston in a sub- 
sequent period, and whom T instantly learnt to regard by finding 
that he held very justly a place of the most desirable distinction in 
the heart of Cowper. 

LETTER LXL 

To Lady HESKETH 

Weston Lodge, M)v. 26, 1786, 
It is my birth-day, my beloved cousin, 
and I determine to employ a part of it, that it may not be destitute 
of festivity, in writing to you. The dark thick fog that has ob- 
scured it would have been a burthen to me at Olney, but here i 
have hardly attended to it. The neatness and snugness of our 
abode compensates all the dreariness of the season, and whether 
the ways are wet or dry, our house at least is always warm and 
commodious. Oh !' for you, my cousin, to partake these comforts 
with us ! I will not begin already to tease you upon that subject, 
but Mrs. Unwin remembers to have heard fi-om your own lips, that 
}^ou liate London in the spring. Perhaps, therefore, by that time, 
you may be glad to escape from a scene, which will be every day 
growing more disagreeable, that you may enjoy the comforts of the 
Lodge. You well know, that the best house has a desolate appear- 
ance unfurnished. This house, accordingly, since it has been oc- 
cupied by us, and our Meubles, is as much supei'ior to what it was 
when you saw it, as you can imagine. The pai'lour is even ele- 
gant. \Vhen I say that the parlour is elegant, I do not mean to 
insinuate that the study is not so. It is neat, warm, and silent, and 
a much better study than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an 
incomparable translation of Homer. I think every day of those 
lines of Milton, and congratulate myself on havhig obtained, be- 
fore I am quite superannu-.ited, what he seems not to have hoped, 
for sooner. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 131 

" And may at length my weary age 
*' Find out tlie peaceful hermitage}" 
For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a much better thing ; and 
you must always understand, my dear, that when poets talk of cot- 
tages, hermitages, and»such like things, they mean a house with 
six sashes in front, two comfortable parlours, a smart stair-case, 
a;nd three bed-chambers of convenient dimensions ; in short, ex- 
actly such a house as this. 

The Throckmortons continue the most obliging neighbours in 
the world. One morning last week they both went with me to the 
Cliffs — a scene, my dear, in which you would delight beyond mea- 
sure, but which you cannot visit except in the spring or autumn. 
The heat of summer, and the clinging dirt of winter, would de- 
stroy you. What is called the Cliff, is no cliff, nor at all like one, 
but a beautiful terrace, sloping gently down to the Ouse, and from 
the brow of which, though not lofty, you have a view of such a 
valley as makes that which you see from the hills near Oiney, and 
which I have had the honour to celebrate, an affair of no consi- 
deration. 

Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect that it confines me. I 
ramble daily, and every day change my ramble. Wherever I go, 
I find short grass under my feet, and when I have travelled, per- 
haps, five miles, come home with shoes not at all too dirty for a 
drawing-room. I was pacing yesterday under the elms that sui-- 
round the field in which stands the great alcove, when, lifting my 
eyes, I saw two black genteel figures bolt through a hedge into the 
path where I was walking. You guess already who they were, 
and that they could be nobod} but our neighbours. They had seen 
me from a hill at a distance, and had traversed a great turnip- 
field to get at me. You see, therefore, my dear, that I am in some 
request. Alas ! in too much request with some people. The verses 
pf Cadwallader have found me at last. 

I am charmed with your account of our little cousin* at Ken- 
sington. If the vv'orld does not spoil him hereafter, he will be a 
valuable man. 

(^ood night, and may God bless thee. W. C. 



LETTER LXIL 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Dec. 4, irS6. 

I sent you, my dear, a melancholy letter, 

H iind I do not know tliat I shall now send you one very unlike it, 

* Loi J Co'.vper. 



132 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Not that any thing occurs, in consequence of oui* late loss, morfr 
afflictive than was to be expected, but the mind does not perfectly 
recover its tone after a shock like that which has been felt so 
lately. This I observe, that though my experience has long since 
taught me that this world is a world of shadows, and that it is the 
more prudent, as well as the more Christian course, to possess 
the comforts that we find in it as if we possessed them not, it 
is no easy matter to reduce this doctrine into practice. We forget 
that that God who gave it may, when he pleas s, take it away; 
and that, perhaps, it may please him to take it at a time when 
we least expect it, or are least disposed to part from it. Thus it 
has happened in the present case. There never was a moment 
in Unwin's life when there seemed to be more urgent want of 
him than the moment in which he died. He had attained to an 
age when, if they are at any time useful, men become more use- 
ful to their families, their friends, and the world. His parish be- 
gan to feel, and to be sensible of the advantages of his ministry. 
The clergy around him were many of them awed by his example. 
His children were thriving under his own tuition and management, 
and his eldest boy is likely to feel his loss severely, being, by his 
years, in some respect qualified to understand the value of such a 
parent, by his literary proficiency — too clever for a school-boy, 
and too young, at the same time, for the university. The r-e- 
moval of a man in the prime of life, of such a character, and 
■Vv'ith such connections, seems to make a void in society that never 
can be filled. God seemed to have made him just what he was, 
that he might be a blessing to others, and when the influence of 
his character and abilities began to be felt, removed him. These 
are mysteries, my dear, that we cannot contemplate without asto- 
nishment, but which will, nevertheless, be explained hereafter, 
and must, in the mean time, be revered in silence. It is Avell for 
his mother that she has spent her life in the practice of an ha- 
bitual acquiescence in the dispensations of Providence, else I know 
that this stroke would have been heavier, after all that she has 
suffered upon another account, than she could have borne. She 
derives, as she well may, gi*eat consolation from the thought, 
that he lived the life and died the death of a Christian. The 
consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathe- 
matical conclusion, that therefore he is happy. So farewell, my 
friend I Jnwin ! the fii-st man for whom I conceived a friendship 
after my removal from St, Alban's, and for whom I cannot but still 
continue to feel a friendship, though I shall see thee with these 
eyes no moi-e. 

W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 133 

LETTER LXIII. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. 
I am perfectly sure that you ai'e mistaken, 
though I do not wonder at it, considering the singular nature of 
the event, in the judgment that you form of poor Unwin's death, 
as it aflFects tlie interests of his intended pupil. When a tutor was 
Av anted for him, you sought out the wisest and best man for the 
office within the circle of your connections. It pleased God to 
take him home to himself. Men eminently wise and good are very 
apt to die, because they are fit to do so. You found in Unwin a 
man worthy to succeed him, and He, in whose hands are the is- 
sues of life and death, seeing, no doubt, that Unwin was ripe for 
a removal into a better state, removed him also. The matter, 
\ iewed in this light, seems not so wonderful as to refuse all ex- 
planation, except such as, in a melancholy moment, you have 
given to it. And I am so convinced that the little boy's destiny 
had no influence at all in hastening the death of his tutors elect, 
that were it not impossible, on more accounts than one, that I 
should be able to serve him in that capacity, I would, without the 
least fear of dying a moment the sooner, offer myself to that of- 
fice ; I would even do it, were I conscious of the same fitness for 
another and better state that I believe them to have been both 
endowed with. In that case, I, perhaps, might die too, but if I 
should, it would not be on account of that connection. Neither, 
my dear, had your interference in the busmess any thing to do 
with the catastrophe. Your whole conduct in it must have been 
acceptable in the sight of God, as it was directed by principles of 
the purest benevolence. 

I have not touched Homer to-day. Yesterday was one of my 
terrible seasons, and when I arose this morning I found that I had 
not sufficiently recovered myself to engage in such an occupation. 
Having letters to write, I the more willingly gave myself a dis- 
pensation. Good night. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXIV. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. 
My dear Friend, 

We had just begun to enjoy the pleasant- 
::e5s of our new situation, to find, at least, as much comfort in it 



134 LIFE OF COWPER. 

as the season of the yeai' would pei'mit, when affliction found tt* 
out in our retreat, and the news reached us of the death of Mr. 
iJnwin. He had taken a western tour with Mr. Henry Thornton, 
and in his return, at Winchester, was seized with a putrid fever, 
Which sent him to his grave. Me is gone to it, however, though 
young, as fit for it as age itself could have made him. Regretted, 
hideed, and always to be regretted by those vvho knew him, for 
he had every thing that makes a man valuable both in his princi- 
ples and in his manners, but leaving still this consolation to his 
surviving friends, that he was desirable in this world chiefly be- 
cause he was so well prepared for a better. 

I find myself here situated exactly to my mind^ Weston is on© 
of the prettiest villages in England, and the walks about it at all 
seasons of the year delightful. I know that you will rejoice with 
me in the change that we have made, and for which I am altoge- 
ther indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a change as great as, to 
compare meti'opolitan things Avith rural, from St. Giles to Gros- 
venor-Square. Our house rs in all respects commodious, and in 
some degree elegant ; and I cannot give you a better idea of that 
which we have left, than by telling you the present candidates for 
it are a publican and a shoemaker. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXV. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Weston, Dec. 21, 1786* 
Your welcome letter, my beloved cousin, 
which ought by the date to have arrived on Sunday, being by some 
untoward accident delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, 
however, and has relieved me from a thousand distressing appre- 
hensions on your account. 

The dew of your intelligence has refreshed my poetical laurels. 
A little praise now and then is very good for your hard-working 
poet, who is apt to grow languid, and perhaps careless, without it. 
Praise, I find, affects us as money does. The more a man gets of 
it, with the more vigilance he watches over and preserves it. 
Such, at least, is its effect on me, and you may assure yourself that 
I will never lose a mite of it for want of care, 

I have already invited the good Padre in general terms, and he 
shall positively dine here next week, whether he wiU or not. I do 
not at all suspect that his kindness to Protestants has any thing in- 
sidious in it, any more than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for 
me with a view for my conversion. He would find tliat a tough piece 



LIFE OF COWPER. 135 

of business, I can tell him ; for when I had no religion at all, I had 
yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much more now ! 

I should have sent you a longer letter, but was obliged to devote 
my last evening to the melancholy employment of composing a 
Latin inscription for the tomb-stone of poor William, two copies 
of which I wrote out and enclosed, one to Henry Thornton and one 
to Mr. Newton. Homer stands by me biting his thumbs, and swears 
that if I do not leave oif directly he will choak me with bristly 
Greek that shall stick in my throat for ever, 

W. C- 



LETTER LXVL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787, 
I have had a little nei'vous fever lately, 
my dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep; and though I 
find myself better to-day than I have been since it seized me, yet 
I feel my head lightish, and not in the best order for writing: you 
will find me, therefore, perhaps, not only less alert in my man- 
ner than I usually am when my spirits are good, but rather 
shorter. I will, however, proceed to scribble till I find that it 
fatigues me, and then will do as I know you would bid me do were 
you here, shut up my desk, and take a walk. 

The good Genei-al tells me, that in the eight first books which 
■I have sent him, he still finds alterations and amendments neces- 
sary, of which I myself am equally persuaded ; and he asks my 
leave to lay them before an intimate friend of his, of whom he 
^ives a character that bespeaks him highly deserving such a trust. 
To this I have no objection, desiring only to make the translation 
as perfect as I caii make it: if God grant me life and health, I 
would spare no labour to secure that point. The General's Icttep 
is extremely kind, and, both for matter and manner, like all the 
rest of his dealings with his cousin the poet. 

I had a letter, also, yesterday, from Mr. Smith, member for 
Nottingham. Though we never saw each other, he writes to me 
in the most friendly terms, and interests himself much in my 
Homer, and in the success of my subscription. Speaking on this 
latter subject, he says, that my poems are read by hundi-eds who 
know nothing of my proposals, and makes no doubt that they 
would subscribe if they did. I have myself always thought them 
imperfectly, or rather insufficiently announced. 

I could pity the poor woman who has been weak enough to 
claim my song. Such pilferings are sure to be detected. I wrote 



136 LIFE OF COWPER. 

it I know not how long, but I suppose four years ago. The rose 
in question was a rose given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and 
the incident that suggested the subject occurred in the room in 
■which you slept at the vicarage, which Lady Austen made her 
dining-room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to London, I gave 
him a copy of it, which he undertook to convey to Nichols, the 
printer of the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it to a Mrs. 

C , who begged to copy it, and promised to send it to the 

printer's by her servant. Three or four months afterwards, and 
when I liad concluded it was lost, I saw it in the Gentleman's 
Magazine, with my signature, W. C. Poor simpleton! she will 
find now, perhaps, that the Rose had a thorn, and that she has 
pricked her fingers with it. Adieu S my beloved cousin. 

W. Co 



LETTER LXVn. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The LodgCy Jan. 8, 1787. 
I have been so much indisposed with the 
fever that I told you had seized me, my nights during the whole 
week maybe said to have been almost sleepless. The consequence 
has been, that except the translation of about thirty lines at the 
conclusion of the 13th book, I have been forced to abandon Homer 
entirely. This was a sensible mortification to me, as you may 
suppose, and felt the more, because my spirits, of coiirse, fail- 
ing with my strength, I seemed to have peculiar need of my old 
amusement; it seemed hard, therefore, to be forced to resign it 
just when I wanted it most. But Homer's battles cannot be fought 
by a man who does not sleep well, and who has not some little de- 
gi-ee of animation in the day-time. Last night, however, quite 
contrary to my expectatioRS, the fever left me entirely, and I 
slept quietly, soundly, and long. If it please God that it return 
not, I shall soon find myself in a condition to proceed. I walk 
constantly, that is to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together ; for at these 
times I keep her continually employed, and never suffer her to be 
absent ft'om me many minutes. She gives me all her time and all 
her attention, and forgets that tliere is another object in the world. 
Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams as every body else 
does, that is to say, according to her own experience. She has had 
no extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts them only the ordi- 
nary operations of the fancy. Mine are of a texture that will not 
suffer me to ascribe them to so inadequate a cause, or to any cause 
but the operation of an exterior agency. I have a mind, my 



I 



LIFE OF COWPER. 137 

dear, (and to you I will venture to boast of it) as free from super- 
stition as any man living ; neither do I give heed to dreams in ge- 
neral as predictive, though particular dreams I believe to be so. 
Some very sensible persons, and I suppose Mrs. Carter among 
them, will acknowledge that in old times God spoke by dreams, 
but affirm, with much boldness, that he has since ceased to do so. 
If you ask them why, they answer, because he has now revealed 
his will in the scripture, and there is no longer any need that he 
should instruct or admonish us by dreams. I grant that, with re- 
spect to doctrines and precepts, he has left us in want of nothing ; 
but has he thereby precluded himself in any of the operations of his 
providence ? Surely not. It is perfectly a different consideration : 
and the same need that there ever was of his interference in this 
way, there is still and ever must be while man continues blind and 
fallible, and a creature beset with dangers which he can neither 
foresee nor obviate. His operations, however, of this kind, are, I 
allow, very rare; and as to the generality of dreams, they are 
made of such stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, that 
though I believe them all to be the manufacture of others, not our 
own, I account it not a farthing matter who manufactures them. 
So much for dreams. 

My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to leave me. It 
is altogether of the nervous kind, and attended, now and then, 
with much dejection. 

A young gentleman called here yesterday, who came six miles 
out of his way to see me. He was on a journey to London from 
Glasgow, having just left the University there. He came, I sup- 
pose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, 
to bring me the thanks of some of the Scotch Professors for my two 
volumes. His name is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being 
good, -you will derive more pleasure from this incident than I can 
at present, therefore I send it. Adieu. 

vv. c. 



LETTER LXVIII. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, July 24th, 1787, 
Dear Sir,' 

This is the first time I have ^vritten these 
six months, and nothing but the constraint of obligation could induce 
me to write now. I cannot be so wanting to myself as not to en- 
deavour at least to thank you both for the visits witli which you 
have favoured me, and the poems that you sent me. In my pre- 

VOL. I, T 



138 LIFE OF COWPER. 

sent state of mind I taste nothing ; nevertheless I read, partly from 
habit, and partly because it is the only thing that I am capable of. 

I have therefore read Burns's Poems, and have read them twice : 
and though they be written in a language that is new to me, and 
many of them on subjects much inferior to the autlior's ability, I 
think them, on the whole, a very extraordinary production. He 
is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms have produced in the 
lower rank of life since Shakspeare, I should rather say since Prior, 
who need not be indebted for any part of his praise to a charitable 
consideration of his origin, and the disadvantages under which he 
has laboured. It will be pity if he should not hereafter divest 
himself of barbarism, and content himself with writing pure Eng- 
lish, in which he appears perfectly qualified to excel. He who 
can command admiration, dishonours himself if he aims no higher 
than to raise a laugh. 

I am, dear Sir, with my best wishes for your prosperity, and 
with Mrs.Unwin's respects, your obliged and affectionate humble 
servant, W. C, 



LETTER LXIX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, Aug. 27, 178Y. 
Dear Sir, 

I have not yet taken up the pen again, 
except to write to you. The little taste that I have had of your 
company, and your kindness in finding me out, make me wish that 
we were nearer neighbours, and that there were not so great a 
disparity in our years ; that is to say^ not that you were older, but 
that I were younger. Could we have met in early life, I flatter 
Jnyself that we might have been more intimate than now Ave are 
likely to be. But you shall not find me slow to cultivate such a 
measure of your regard as your friends of your own age can spare 
me. When your route shall lie through this country, I shall hope 
that the same kindness which has prompted you twice to call on 
me, will prompt you again ; and I shall be happy if, on a future 
occasion, I may be able to give you a more cheerful reception than 
can be expected from an invalid. My health and spirits are con-, 
siderably improAcd, and I once more associate with my neighbours. 
My head, however, has been the worst part of me, and still con- 
tinues so; — is subject to giddiness and pain, maladies very unfa- 
vourable to poetical employment : but a preparation of the bark, 
which I take regularly, has so far been of service to me in those 
respects, as to encourage in me a hope that, by perseverance in 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 139 

the use of it, I may possibly find myself qualified to resume the 
translation of Homer. 

\Anien I cannot walk I read, and read pei'haps more than is 
good for me. But I cannot be idle. The only mercy that I show 
myself in this respect is, that I read nothing that requires much 
closeness of application. I lately finished the perusal of a book 
■which in forme r j-^ars I have more than once attacked, but never 
till now conquered; some other book always interfered before I 
could finish it. The work I mean is Barclay's Argenis, and if ever 
you allow yourself to read for mere amusement, I can recommend 
it to j'ou (provided you have not already perused it) as the most 
amusing romance that ever was written. It is the only one, in- 
deed, of an old date, that I ever had the patience to go through 
with. It is interesting in a high degree ; richer in incident than 
can be imagined, full of surprises, which the reader never fore- 
stalls, and yet free from all entanglement and confusion. The 
stile too appears to me to be such as would not dishonour Tacitus 
himself. 

Poor Burns loses much of his deserved praise in this country, 
through our ignorance of his language. I despair of meeting witli 
any Englishman who will take the pains that I have taken to un- 
derstand him. His candle is bright, but shut up in a dark lantern. 
I lent him to a very sensible neighbour of mine, but his uncouth 
dialect spoiled all, and before he had half read him thi"ough, he 
•was quite ramfeezlecl. 

w. c. 



Letter lxx. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Aug. ^0, IJ'S/ . 
My dearest Cousin, 

Though it costs me something to write, 
it would cost me more to be silent. My intercourse with my 
neighbours being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget how 
many reasons there are why you especially should not be neglected ; 
ho neighbour, indeed, but the kindest of my friends, and ere long, 
I hope, an inmate. 

My health and spirits seem to be mending daily ; to what end I 
know not, neither Avill conjecture, but endeavour, as far as I can, 
to be content that they do so. I use exercise, and take the air ih 
the park and Avilderness. I read much, but as yet write not. Our 
friends at the Hall make themselves more and more amiable in our 
•Recount^ by treating us rather as old friends than as fi'iends newly 



140 LIFE OF COWPER. 

acquired. There are few days in which we do not meet, and I am 
now almost as much at home in their house as in our own. Mr. 
Throckmorton, having long since put me in possession of all his 
ground, has now given me possession of his library — an acquisition 
of great value to me, who never have been able to live without 
books since I first knew my let'.ers, and who have no books of my 
own. By his means I have been so well supplied, that I have not 
yet even looked at the Lounger, for which, however, I do not 
forget that I am obliged to you. His turn comes next, and I shall 
probably begin him to-morrow. 

Mr. George Throckmorton is at the Hall. I thought I had 
known these brothers long enough to have found out all their 
talents and accomplishments ; but I was mistaken. The day be-? 
fore yesterday, after having walked Avith us, they carried us up to 
the library, (a more accurate writer would have said conducted us) 
and then they showed me the contents of an immense port-folio, 
the work of their own hands. It was furnished with drawings of 
the architectural kind, executed in a most masterly manner, and 
among others contained outside and inside views of the Pantheon, 
I mean the Roman one. They were all, I believe, made at Rome. 
Some men may be estimated at a first interview, but the Throck-; 
mortons must be seen often and known long before one can under- 
stand all their value, 

They often inquire after you, and ask me whether you visit 
Weston this autumn. I answer yes, and I charge you, my dearest 
cousin, to authenticate my information. Write to me, and tell us; 
when we may expect to see you. We are disappointed that we 
had no letter from you this morning. You will find me coated and 
buttoned according to your recommendation. 

I write but little, because writing is become ncAv to me; but I 
shall come on by degrees. Mrs. Unwin begs to be aifectionately 
remembered to you. She is in tolerable health, which is the chief 
comfort here that I have to boast of. 

Yours, my dearest cousin, as ever, W. C. 



LETTER LXXI. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Se/ii. 4, 1787. 
My dearest Coz. 

Come when thou canst come, secure of 
being alv/ays welcome. All that is here is thine, together with 
the hearts of those who dwell here. I am only sorry that your 
journey hither is necessarily postponed beyond the time when I did 



LIFE OF COWPER. 141 

hope to have seen you— sorry too, that my uncle's infirmities are 
the occasion of it. But years nvill have their course and their ef- 
fect : they are happiest, so far as this life is concerned, who, like 
him, escape those effects the longest, and who do not grow old 
before their time. Trouble and anguish do that for some, which 
only longevity does for others. A few months since I was older 
than your father is now ; and though I have lately recovered, as 
Falstaff says, some smatch of my youth, I have but little confidence, 
in truth none, in so flattering a change, but expect, tvhen I least 
exficct it, to wither again. The past is a pledge for the future. 

Mr. G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's uncle. He is lately ar- 
rived from Italy, where he has resided several j ears, and is so 
much the gentleman that it is impossible to be more so. Sensible, 
polite, obliging; slender in his figure, and in manner most engag- 
ing — every way worthy to be related to the Throckmortons. — .—I 
have read Savary's Travels into Egypt, Memoires du Baron de 
Tott, Fenn's Original Letters, the Letters of Frederick of Bohe- 
mia, and am now reading Memoires d' Henri de Lorraine, Due de 
Guise. I have also read Barclay's Argenis, a Latin romance, and 
the best romance that was ever written. All these, together with 
Madan's Letters to Priestley, and several pamphlets, within these 
^wo months. So I am a great reader. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXII. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Sefit. 15, 178/. 
My dearest Cousin, 

On Monday last I was invited to meet 
your friend Miss J — ■. — at the Hall, and there we found her. Her 
good nature, her humorous manner, and her good sense are 
charming, insomuch that even I, who was never much addicted to 
speech-making, and who at present find myself particularly indis- 
posed to it, could not help saying at parting, ' I am glad that I have 
seen you, and sorry that I have seen so little of you.' We were 
sometimes many in company — on Thursdaj'^ we were fifteen ; but 
"we had not altogether so much vivacity and cleverness as Miss 
J , whose talent at mirth-making has this rare property to re- 
commend it, that nobody suffers by it. 

I am making a gravel walk for winter use, under a warm hedge 
in the orchard. It shall be furnished with a low seat for your ac- 
commodation, and if you do but like it, I shall be satisfied. In 
"wet weather, or rather after wet weather, when the street is dirty, 



143 LIFE OF COWPER. 

it will suit you wellj for lying on an easy declivity, through its 
■whole length, it must of course be immediately dry. 

You are very much wished for by our friends at the Hall — how 
Hiuch by me I will not tell you till the second week in October. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXm. 
To Lady HESKETH. 
~ Mt ekar Co2. The Lodge^ 5ejit. 29, 178?*. 

I thank you for your political intelligence ; 
retired as we are, and seemingly excluded from the world, we are 
not indifferent to what passes in it; on the contrary, the an-ival 
of a newspaper, at the present juncture, never fails to furnish us 
ivith a theme for discussion, short, indeed, but satisfactory, for 
Tve seldom differ in opinion. 

I have received such an impression of the Turks, from the 
]VIennioirs of Baron de Tott, which I read lately, that I can hardly 
help presaging the conquest of that empire by the Russians. The 
disciples of INIahomet are such babies in modern tactics, and so 
Enervated by the use of their favourite drug, so fatally secure in 
their predestinarian di'eam, and so prone to a spirit of mutiny 
against their leaders, that nothing less can be expected. In fact, 
they had not been their own masters at this day, had but the Rus- 
fcjans known the weakness of their enemies half so well as they un- 
doubtedly know it now. Add to this, that thei-e is a popular pro-^ 
phecy current in both countries, that Turkey is one day to fall 
under the Russian sceptre : a prophecy which, from whatever au- 
thority it be derived, as it will naturally encourage the Russians 
imd dispirit the Turks in exact proportion to the degree of credit 
It has obtained on both sides, has a direct tendency to effect its 
own accomplishment. In the mean time, if I v/ish them con- 
{{uered, it is only because I think it will be a blessing to them to 
be governed by any other hand than their own ; for under Hea- 
ven has there never bfeen a throUe so execrably tyrannical as theirs* 
The heads of the innocent that have been cut off to gratify the 
humour or dapr'ice of their tjrants, could they be all collected, and 
discharged against the walls of their city, would not leave one 
Stone on another^ 

Oh, that you were here this beautiful day ! It is too fine by 
half to be spent in London. I have a perpetual din in my head, 
and though I am not deaf, hear nothing aright, neither my own 
toice, nor that of others. I am under a tub, from which tub ac^ 
tept my best love. Yours, V/. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. U5 



LETTER LXXIV. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
Dear Sir, rFe^^ton, Oct. 19, 1787. 

A summons from Johnson, which I re- 
ceived yesterday, calls my attention once more to the business of 
translation. Before I begin I am willing to catch, though but a 
siiort opportunity, to acknowledge your last favour. The neces- 
sity of applying myself with all diligence to a long work that has 
been but too long interrupted, will make my opportunitLes of wriu 
ing rare in future. 

Air and exercise are necessary to all men, but particularly so 
to the man whose mind labours ; and to him who has been, all his 
life, accustomed to nmch of both, they are necessary in the ex- 
treme. My time, since we parted, has been devoted entirely to 
the recovery of health and strength for this service, and I am wiU 
ling to hope v.ith good effect. Ten months have passed since I 
discontinued my poetical efforts : I do not expect to find the same 
readiness as before, till exercise of the neglected faculty, such as 
it is, shaU have restored it to me. 

You find yourself, I hope, by this time, as comfortably situated 
in your new abode, as in a new abode one can be. I enter per^ 
fectly into all your feelings on occasion of the change. A sensible 
mind cannot do violence even to a local attachment, without much 
pain. When my father died I was young, too young to have re- 
flected much. He v\ras Rector of Berkliamstead, and there I was 
born. It had never occurred to me that a parson has no fee-simple 
in the glebe and house he occupies. There was neither tree, nop 
gate, nor stile, in all that country, to which I did not feel a rela- 
tion, and the house itself I preferred to a palace. I was sent fov 
fi-om London to attend him in his last illness, and he died just be^ 
fore I arrived. Then, and not till then, I felt, for the first time, 
that I and my native place were disunited for ever. I sigh-^d a long 
adieu to fields and %voods, from which I once thought I should 
never be parted, and was at no time so sensible of their beautie* 
iis just when I left them ail behind me, to return no m.ore. 

\V. C, 

LETTER LXXV. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lod^e, Aov. 10, 1787. 
The parliament, my dearest cousin, pro- 
rogued continually, is a meteor dancing before my eyes, promis- 
ing me my wish only to disappoint me, and none but the king and 



144 LIFE OF COWPER. 

his ministers can tell when you and I shall come together. I hope, 
however, that the period, though so often postponed, is not far 
distant, and that once more I shall behold you, and experience your 
power to make winter gay and sprightly. 

I have a kitten, my dear, the drollest of aU creatures that ever 
wore a cat's skin. Her gambols are not to be described, and would 
be incredible, if they could. In point of size she is likely to be a 
kitten always, being extremely small of her age ; but time, I sup- 
pose, that spoils every thing, will make her a so a cat. You will 
see her, I hope, before that melancholy period shall arrive, for no 
wisdom that she may gain by experience and reflecuon hereafter, 
will compensate the loss of her present hilarity. She is dressed in 
a tortoise-shell suit, and I know that you will delight in her. 

Mrs. Throckmorton carries us to-morrow in her chaise to Chi- 
cheley. The event, however, must be supposed to depend on ele- 
ments, at least on the state of the atmosphere, which is turbulent 
beyond measure. Yesterday it thundered ; last night it lightned, 
and at three this morning I saw the sky as red as a city in flames 
could have made it. I have a leech in a bottle that foretells all 
these prodigies and convulsions of nature. No, not as you will na- 
turally conjecture, by articulate utterance of oracular notices, but 
by a variety of gesticulations, which here I have not room to give 
an account of. Suffice it to say, that no change of weather sur- 
prises him, and that, in point of the earUest and most accurate in- 
telligence, he is worth all the barometers in the world — none of 
them all, indeed, can make the least pretence to foretell thunder — a 
species of capacity of which he has given the most unequivocal 
evidence. I gave but sixpence for him, which is a groat more than 
the market price, though he is in fact, or rather would be, if 
leeches were not found in every ditch, an invaluable acquisition. 

W. C. 



THE RETIRED CAT.* 

A poet's cat, sedate and grave, 
As poet well could wish to have. 
Was much addicted to uiquire 
For nooks, to which she might retire, 
And where, secure as mouse in chink, 
She might repose, or sit and think. 

* tlole by ihe Editor. — As the kitten mentioned in this letter was probably, in her advanced 
life, the heroine of a little sportive moral poem, it m»y We introduced perhaps not improperly 
here. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 245 

I know not where she caught the trick-^ 

Nature perhaps herself had cast her 
In such a mould p/ii/osofi/iique, 
Or else she learn 'd it of her master. 
Sometimes ascending debonair, 
An apple-tree or lofty pear, 
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork, 
She watch'd the gard'ner at his work; 
Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
In an old empty wat'ring pot, 
There wanting nothing, save a fan, 
To seem some n}Tnph in her sedan, 
Appai'ell'd in exactest sort, 
And ready to be borne to court. 

But love of change it seems has place 
"Not only in our wiser race ; 
Cats also feel as well as we 
That passion's force, and so did she. 
Her climbing she began to find 
Expos'd her too much to the wind, 
And the old utensil of tin 
Was cold and comfortless within: 
She therefore wish'd, instead of those, 
Some place of more serene repose, 
Where neither cold might come, nor air 
Too rudely wanton with her hair ; 
And sought it in the likeliest mode 
Within her master's snug abode. 

A draw'r, it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd 
With linen of the softest kind. 
With such as merchants introduce 
From India, for the lady's use ; 
A draw'r impending o'er the rest. 
Half open in the topmost chest. 
Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
Invited her to slumber there. 
Puss, with delight beyond expression, 
Survey'd the scene, and took possession. 
Recumbent at her ease ere long. 
And lull'd by her own hum-drum song. 
She left the cares of life behind. 
And slept as she would sleep her last ; 



VOL. I. 



146 LIFE OF COWPER. 

When in came, housewifely inclin'd, 
The chamber-maid, and shut it fast, 
By no malignity impell'd, 
But all unconscious whom it held. 

Awaken'd by the shock (cried puss) 
" Was ever cat attended thus I 
" The open draw'r was left, I see, 
*' Merely to prove a nest for me ; 
'< For soon as I was well compos'd, 
" Then came the maid, and it was clos'd. 
" How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet,. 
" Oh what a delicate retreat ! 
" I will resign myself to rest 
<' Till Sol, declining in the west, 
" Shall call to supper ; when, no doubt, 
" Susan will come and let me out." 

The evening came, the sun descended, 
And puss remain'd stiU unattended. 
The night roU'd tardily away, 
(With her, indeed, 'twas never day). 
The sprightly morn her course re new 'd. 
The evening grey again ensued, 
And puss came into mind no more 
Than if entomb'd the day before. 
With hunger pinch 'd, and pinch'd for room) 
She now presag'd approaching doom, 
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd. 
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. 

That night, by chance, the poet watching, 
Heard an inexplicable scratching ; 
His noble heart went pit-a-pat. 
And to himself he said— "What's that?" 
He drew the curtain at his side. 
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. 
Yet by his ear directed, guess'd, 
Something imprison'd in the chest. 
And doubtful what, with prudent care, 
Resolv'd it should continue there. 
At length a voice, which well he knew, 
A long and melancholy mew. 



LIFE OF COWPER. U7 

Saluting his poetic ears, 

Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears; 

He left his bed, he trod the floor, 

He 'gan in haste the draw'rs explofc, 

The lowest first, and without stop, 

The rest in order to the top. 

For 'tis a truth, well known to most, 

That whatsoever thing is lost, 

VS^e seek it, ere it come to light, 

In ev'ry cranny but the right. 

Forth skipp'd the Cat; not now replete 

As erst with ait'y sfelf-conceit. 

Nor in her own fond apprehension, 

A theme for all the world's attention, 

But modest, sober, cur'd of all 

Her notions hyperbolical. 

And wishing for her place of rest 

Any thing rather than a chest. 

Then stept the poet into bed 

With this reflection in his head. 

MORAL. 
Bewai-e of too sublime a sense 
Of your own worth and consequence I 
The man who dreams himself so great, 
And his importance of such weight, 
That all around, in all that's done, 
Must move an act for him alone. 
Will learn, in school of tribulation. 
The folly of his expectation. 



LETTER LXXVL 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Mv. 16, ItBT, 
1 thank yoil for the solicitude that you 
t'xpress on the subject of my present studies. The work is un- 
doubtedly long and laborious, but it has an end, and proceeding 
leisurely, with a due attention to the use of air and exercise, it is 
possible that I may livfe to finish it. Assure yourself of one thing, 
that though to a bystander it may seem an occupation surpassing 
the powers of a constitution ncA er very athletic, and, at present, 
not a little the worse for wear, I can invent for myself no emploj'- 
ment that does not exhaust my spirits more. I will not pretend to 



148 LIFE OF COWPER. 

account for this ; I will only say, that it is not the language of pre- 
dilection for a favourite amusement, but that the fact is really so. 
I have even found that those plaything avocations which one may- 
execute almost without any attention, fatigue me, and wear me 
away, while such as engage me much, and attach me closely, are 
rather serviceable to me than otherwise. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXVII. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, JVov. 27, 1787. 
It is the part of wisdom, my dearest 
€ousin, to sit down contented under the demands of necessity, be- 
cause they are such. I am sensible that you cannot, in my uncle's 
present infirm state, and of which it is not possible to expect any 
considerable amendment, indulge either us or yourself with a 
journey to Weston. Yourself, I say, both because I know it will 
give you pleasure to see Causidice mi* once more, especially in 
the comfortable abode where you have placed him, and because, 
after so long an imprisonment in London, you, who love the coun- 
try and have a taste for it, would of course be glad to return to it. 
For my own part, to me it is ever new ; and though I have now 
been an inhabitant of this village a twelvemonth, and have, during 
the half of that time, been at liberty to expatiate, and to make 
discoveries, I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks, which 
you would never be satisfied with enjoying. Some of them are un- 
approachable by you, either on foot or in your carriage. Had you 
twenty toes (whereas I suppose you have but ten) you could not 
reach them ; and coach-wheels have never been seen there since 
the flood. Before it, indeed, (as Burnet says that the earth was 
then perfectly free from all inequalities in its surface) they might 
be seen there every day. We have other walks, both upon hill tops 
and in vallies beneath, some of which, by the help of your carriage, 
and many of them without its help, would be always at your com- 
mand. 

On Monday morning last, Sam brought me word that there was 
a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with me. I ordered him 
in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made its appearance, and being 
desired to sit, spoke as follows: " Sir, I am clerk of the parish of 
All-Saints in Northampton ; brother of Mr. C. the upholsterer. 
It is customary for the person in my office to annex to a bill of 

» The appellation which Sii Thomus Hesketh usei to give him in jest, when he was of the 
Temple. 



LIFE OF COV\'PER. «9 

mol'tality which he publishes at Christmas, a copy of verses. You 
would do me a great favour, Sir, if you would furnish me with 
one." To this I replied, " Mr. C. you have several men of genius 
in your town, why have you not applied to some of them ? there is 

a namesake of yours in particular, C , the statuary, who, 

every body knows, is a first-rate maker of verses. He surely is 
the man of all the world for your purpose." " Alas! Sir, I have 
lieretofore borrowed help from him, but he is a genfeman of so 
much reading that the people of our town cannot understand him." 
I confess to you, my dear, I felt all the force of the compliment im- 
plied in this speech, and was almost ready to answer. Perhaps, my 
good fi-iend, they may find me unintelligible too for the same reason. 
But on asking him whether he had walked over to Weston on pur- 
pose to implore the assistance of my muse, and on his replying in 
the affirmative, I felt my mortified vanity a little consoled, and 
pitying the poor man's distress, which appeared to be considerable, 
promised to supply him. The waggon has accoi'dingly gone this 
<lay to Northampton, loaded, in part, with my effusions in the mor- 
tuary stile. A fig for poets who write epitaphs upon individuals ! 
I have written one that serves tnuo hundred persons. 

A few days since I received a second very obliging letter from 

Mr. M . He tells me that his own papers, which are by far, 

he is sorry to say it, the most numerous, are marked V. I. Z. Ac- 
cordingly, my dear, I am happy to find that I am engaged in a 
correspondence with Mr. Viz, a gentleman for whom I have ^1 ways 
entertained the profoundest veneration. But the serious fact is, 
that the papers distinguished by those signatures have ever pleased 
me most, and struck me as the work of a sensible man, who knows 
the world well, and has more of Addison's delicate humour than 
any body. 

A poor man begged food at the Hall lately. The cook gave 
him some Vermicelli soup. He ladled it about some time with the 
spoon, and then returned it to her, saying, " I am a poor man it is 
true, and I am very hungry, but yet I cannot eat broth with mag^ 
gots in it." Once more, my dear, a thousand thanks for your box 
full of good things, useful things, and beautiful things. 

Ever yours, W. C, 



LETTER LXXVin. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1787. 

I am glad, my dearest coz. that my last 

letter proved so diverting. You may assure yourself cf the literal 



ISO LIFE OF COWPER. 

truth of the whole narration, and that however droll, it tvas hot 
in the least indebted to any embellishments of mine. 

You say well, my dear, that in Mr. Throckmorton we have a 
pee«'less neighbour ; we have so. In point of information upon all 
important subjects, in respect, too, of expression and address, and, 
in short, every thing that enters into the idea of a gentleman, I 
have not found his equal (not often) any where. Were I asked, 
who in my judgment approaches the nearest to him, in all his 
amiable qualities and qualifications^ I should ceilainly answer, hii 
brother George, who, if he be not his exact counterpart, endued 
with precisely the same measure of the same accomplishments, is 
nevertheless deficient in none of them, and is of a character singu- 
larly agreeable, in respect of a certain manly, I had almost said 
heroic frankness, with which his air strikes one almost immedi- 
ately* So far as his opportunities have gone, he has ever been as 
friendly and obliging to us as we could wish him ; and were he 
1-iord of the Hall to-morrow, would, I dare say, conduct himself 
toward us in such a manner as to leave us as little sensible as pos- 
sible of the removal of its present owners. But all this I say, my 
dear, merely for the sake of stating the matter as it is j not in or- 
der to obviate, or to prove the inexpedience of any future plans 
of yours, concerning the place of our residence. Providence and 
time shape every thing ; I should rather say Providence alone, for 
time has often no hand in the wonderful changes that we experi- 
ence ; they take place in a moment. It is not, therefore, worth 
while, perhaps, to consider much what we will, or will not do in 
years to come, concerning which all that I can say with certainty 
at present is, that those years will be to me the most welcome, irt 
which I can see the most of you* W. C. 



LETTER LXXIX. 
to Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Dec. 10, lYSf* 

I thank you for the snip of cloth, com- 

hionly called a pattern. At present I have two coats, and but one 

back. If at any time hereafter I should find myself possessed of 

fewer coats, or more backs, it will be of use to me. 

Even as you suspect, my dear, so it proved. The ball was pre- 
pared for, the ball was held, and the ball passed, and we had 
nothing to do with it. Mrs. Throckmorton knowing our trim, did 
not give us the pain of an invitation, for a pain it would have been. 
And why ? as Sternhold says : because, as Hopkins answers, we 
must have refused it. But it fell out singularly enough, that this 



LIFE OF COWPER. 151 

ball was held of all days in the year, on my birth-day— and so I 
told them — but not till it was all over. 

Though I have thought proper never to take any notice of the 
arrival of my MSS. together with the other good thivgs in the box, 
yet certain it is that I received them. I have furbished up the tenth 
book till it is as bright as silver, and am now occupied in bestowing 
the same labour upon the eleventh. The twelfth and thirteenth 

are in the hands of , and the fourteenth and fifteenth are ready 

to succeed them. This notable job is the delight of my heart, and 
how sorry shall I be when it is ended ! 

The smith and the carpenter, my dear, are both in the room 
hanging a beU. If I therefore make a thousand blunders, let the 
said intruders answer for them all. 

I thank you, my dear, for your history of the G s. What 

changes in that family ! And how many thousand families have, in 
the same time, experienced changes as violent as theirs ! The course 
of a rapid river is the justest of all emblems to express the variable- 
ness of our scene below. Shakspeare says, none ever bathed 
himself twice in the same stream ; and it is equally true, that the 
world upon which we close our eyes at night, is never the same 
with that on which we open them in the morning. 

I do not always say, ' Give my love to my uncle,' because he 
knows that I always love him. I do not always present Mrs. Un- 
win's love to you, partly for the same reason, (deuce take the smith 
and the carpenter) and partly because I sometimes forget it. But 
to present mv own I forget never, for I always have to finish my 
letter, which I know not how to do, my dearest coz. without telling 
yoii tliat I aip ever yours^ 

w. c. 



LETTER LXXX. 

I'o SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston^ Dec. 13, 17B,r. 
Unless my memory deceives me, I fore- 
warned you that I should prove a very unpunctual correspondent. 
The work that lies before me engages, unavoidably, my whole at- 
tention. The length of it, the spirit of it, and the exactness that 
is requisite to its due performance, are so many most interesting 
subjects of consideration to me, who find that my best attempts are 
only introductory to others, and that what to-day I suppose finished, 
to-morrow I must begin again. Thus it fares with a translator of 
Homer. To exhibit the majesty of such a poet in a modem lan- 
guage is a task that no man can estimate the difficulty of till he at- 



152 LIFE OF COWPEK- 

tempts it. To paraphrase him loosely, to hang him with trappings 
that do not Ijclong to him — all this is comparatively easy. But to 
represent him with only his own ornaments, and still to preserve 
his dignity, is a labour that, if I hope in any measure to achieve it, 
I am sensible can only be achieved by the most assiduous and most 
imremitting attention. Our studies, however different in them- 
selves, in respect of the means by which they are to be success- 
fully carried on, bear some resemblance to each other. A perse- 
verance that nothing can discourage, a minuteness of observation 
that suffers nothing to escape, and a determination not to be se- 
duced from the straight line that lies before us, by any images with 
which fancy may present us, are essentials that should be common 
to us both. There are, perhaps, few arduous midertakings that 
are not, in fact, more arduous than we at first supposed them. 
As we proceed, difficulties increase upon us, but our hopes gather 
strength also ; and we conquer difficulties which, could we have 
foreseen them, we should never have had the boldness to encounter. 
May this be your experience, as I doubt not that it will. You pos- 
sess, by nature, all that is necessary to success in the profession 
that you have chosen. What remains is in your own power. 
They say of poets that they must be born such : so must mathe- 
maticians, so must great generals, and so must lawyers, and so, 
indeed, must men of all denominations, or it is not possible that 
they should excel. But with whatever faculties we are born, and 
to whatever studies our genius may direct us, studies they must 
still be. I am persuaded that Milton did not write his Paradise 
Lost, nor Homer his Iliad, nor Newton his Principia, without im- 
mense labour. Nature gave them a bias to their respective pur- 
suits, and that strong propensity, I suppose, is what we mean by 
genius. The rest they gave themselves. " Macte esto," there- 
fore, have no fears for the issue ! 

I have had a second kind letter from your friend Mr. , 

which I have just answered. I must not, I find, hope to see him 
here, at least I must not much expect it. He has a family that 
does not permit him to fly Southward. I have also a notion that 
we three could spend a few days comfortably together, especially 
in a country like this, abounding in scenes with which I am sure 
you would both l)e delighted. Having lived till lately at some dis- 
tance from the spot that I now inhabit, and having never been mas- 
ter of any sort cf vehicle whatever, it is but just noAv that I begin, 
myself to be acquainted with the beauties of our situation. To yoa 
I may hope one time or other to show them, and shall be happy to 
do it when an opportunity offers. 

Yours, most affectionate!}-, W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 153 

LETTER LXXXL 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 1, 1788. 
Now for another story almost incredible 1 
A story, that would be quite such, if it was not certain that you 
give me credit for any thing. I have read the poem for the sake 
of which you sent the paper, and >vas much entertained by it. You 
think it, perhaps, as very well you may, the only piece ot that kind 
that was ever produced. It is indeed original, for I dare say Mr. 
Merry never saw mine ; but certainly it is not unique. For most 
true it is, my dear, that ten years since, having a letter to write to 
a friend of mine, to whom I could write any thing, I filled a whole 
sheet with a composition, both in measure and in manner, pre- 
cisely similar. I have in vain searched for it. It is either burnt 
or lost. Could I have found it, you would have had double post- 
age to pay. For that one man in Italy, and another in England, 
who never saw each other, should stumble on a species of verse, 
in which no other man ever wrote, (and I believe that to be the 
case) and upon a stile and manner too, of which I suppose that 
neither of them had ever seen an example, appears to me so extra- 
ordinary a fact, that I must have sent you mine, whatever it hacj 
cost you, and am really vexed that I cannot authenticate the story 
by producing a voucher. The measure I recollect to have been 
perfectly the same ; and as to the manner, I am equally sure of that, 
and from this circumstance, that Mrs. Unwin and I never laughed 
more at any production of mine, perhaps not even at John Gilpin. 
But for all this, my dear, you must, as I said, give me credit ; for 
the thing itself is gone to that limbo of vanity, where alone, says 
Milton, things lost on earth are to be met with. Said limbo is, as 
you know, in the moon, whither I could not at present convey my- 
self without a good deal of difficulty and inconvenience. 

This morning, being the morning of New Year's Day, I sent to 
the Hail a copy of verses, addressed to Mr. Throckmorton, en- 
titled, The Wish, or the Poet's New Year's Gift. We dine there 
to-morrow, when, I suppose, I shall hear news of them. Their 
kindness is so great, and they seize with such eagerness every op- 
portunity of doing all they think will please us, that I held myself 
almost in duty bound to treat them with this stroke of my pro- 
fession. 

The small-pox has done, I believe, all that it has to do at Wes- 
ton. Old folks, and even women with child, have been inocu- 
lated. We talk of our freedom, and some of us are free enough, 
ttut not the poor. Dependent as tliey are upon parish bounty, they 

YOL. I. X 



154 LIFE OF COWPER. 

are sometimes obliged to submit to impositions which, perhaps, iiv 
France itself, could hardly be pai'allelled. Can man or woman be 
said to be free, who is commanded to take a distemper, sometimes 
at least mortal, and in circumstances most likely to make it so ? 
No circumstance whatever was permitted to exempt the inhabit- 
ants of Weston. The old as well as the young, and the pregnant 
as well as they who had only themselves within them, have been 
inoculated. Were I asked who is the most arbitrary sovereign 'in- 
earth, I should answer, neither the King of France, nor the Grand 
Signior, but an overseer of the poor in England. 

i am, as heretofore, occupied with Homer : my present occupa- 
tion is the revisal of all I have done, viz. of the first fifteen books, 
I stand amazed at my own increasing dexterity in the business, be- 
ing verily persuaded that, as far as I have gone, I have improved 
the work to double its former value. 

That you may begin the new year, and end it in all health and 
happiness, and many more when the present shall have been long 
an old one, is the ardent wish of Mrs. Unwin, and of yours, my 
dearest Coz. most coi-dially, W. C 



LETTER LXXXIL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 19, 1788.. 
When I have prose enough to fill my 
paper, which is always the case when I write to you, I cannot find 
in my heart to give a third part of it to verse» Yet this I must 
do, or I must make my pacquets more costly than worshipful, by 
doubling the postage upon you, which I should hold to be unrea- 
sonable. See, then, the true reason why I did not send you that 
same scribblement till you desired it. The thought which natu- 
rally presents itself to me on all such occasions is this — Is not your 
cousin coming? Why are you impatient? Will it not be time 
enough to show her your fine things when she arrives ? 

Fine things, indeed, I have few. He who has Homer to tran^ 
scribe may well be contented to do little else. As when an ass, 
being harnessed with rop>es to a sand-cart, drags with hanging ears 
his heavy burthen, neither filling the long echoing streets with his 
harmonious bray, nor throwing up his heels behind, frolicksome 
and airy, as asses less engaged are wont to do ; so I, satisfied to 
find myself indispensibly obliged to render into the best possible 
English metre, eight and forty Greek books, of which the two 
finest poems in the world consist, account it quite sufficient if I 
iTvay at last achieve that labour, and seldom allow myself thos*- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 15S 

J>retty little vagaries in which I should otherwise delight, and of 
which, if I should live long enough, I intend hereafter to enjoy 
my fiU. 

This is the reason, my dear cousin, if I may be permitted to 
call you so in the same breath with which I have uttered this truly 
heroic comparison — this is the reason why I produce, at present, 
but few occasional poems ; and the preceding reason is that which 
may account satisfactorily enough for my withholding the very few 
that I do produce. A thought sometimes strikes me before I rise: 
if it runs re.idily into verse, and I can finish it before breakfast, it 
is well ; otherwise it dies, and is forgotten ; for all the subsequent 
hours are devoted to Homer. 

The day before yesterday I saw, for the first time, Bunbury's 
new print, the Propagation of a Lie. Mr. Throckmorton sent it 
for the amusement of our party. Bunbury sells humour by the 
yard, and is, I suppose, the first vender of it who ever did so. He 
cannot, therefore, be said to have humour without measure, (par* 
don a pun, my dear, from a man who has not made one before ^ 
these forty years) though he may cei'tainly be said to be immea« 
surably droU. 

The original thought is good, and the exemplification of it in 
those very expressiv^e figures, admirable. A poem on the same 
subject, displaying all that is displayed in those attitudes and in 
those features (for faces they can hardly be called) would be most 
excellent. The affinity of the two arts, viz. verse and painting, 
has been often observed: possibly the happiest illustration of it 
would be found, if some poet would ally himself to some draftsman, 
as Bunbury, and undertake to write every thing he should draw. 
Then let a musician be admitted of the party. He should compose 
said poem, adapting notes to it exactly accommodated to the 
theme : so should the sister arts be proved to be indeed sisters, 
and the world would die of laughing. 

w.c. 



LETTER LXXXIIL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge^ Jan. 30, irSS. 
My dearest Cousin, 

It is a fortnight since I heard from you, 
that is to say, a week longer than you have accustomed me to wait 
for a letter. I do not forget that you have recommended it to me, 
on occasions somev/hat similar, to banish all anxiety, and to as- 
\cribe your silence only to the interruptions of company. Good ad- 



M6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

vice, my dear, but not easily taken by a man circumstanced as I 
am. I have learned in the school of adversity, a school from 
which I have no expectation that I shall ever be dismissed, to ap- 
prehend the worst, and have ever found it ihe cnly crurse in 
which I can indu'ge myself without the least danger of incurring a 
disappointment. This kind of experience, continued through 
many years, has given me such an habituil bias to the gloomy tide 
of every thing, that I never have a moment's ease on any subject 
to which I am not indifferent. How, then, can I be easy when I am 
left aflo t upon a sea of endless conjectures, of which you ftirnish 
the occasion ? Write, I beseech you, and do not forget that I am 
now a battered actor upon this turbu ent stage: that what .ittle 
vigour of mind I ever had, of the self-supporting kind I mean, has 
long since been broken ; and that though I can bear nothing well, 
yet any thing better than a state of ignorance concei'ning ycur 
welfare. I have spent hours in the night leaning upon my eloow, 
and wondering what your silence means. I intreat you once more 
to put an end to these speculations, which cost me more animal 
spirits than I can spare : if you cannot, without great trouble to 
yourself, (which, in your situation, may very possibiy be the case,) 
contrive opportunities of writing so frequently as usual, only say 
it, and I am content. I will wait, if you desire it, as long for every 
letter ; but then let them arri^'e at the period once fixed, exactly 
at the time, for my patience will not hold out an hour beyond it. 

vv. c. 



LETTER LXXXIV. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge^ Feb. 1, l/StJ. 
Pardon me, my dearest cousin, tlie 
mournful ditty that I sent you last. There are times when I see 
every thing through a medium that distresses me to an insupport- 
able degree, and that letter was written in one of them. A fog 
that had for three days obliterated all the beauties of Weston, and 
a north-east wind, might possibly contribute not a little to the me- 
lancholy that indited it. But my mind is now easy ; your letter has 
made it so ; and I feel myself as blithe as a bird in comparison. I 
love you, my cousin, and cannot suspect, either with or without 
cause, the least evil in which you may be concerned, without be- 
ing greatly troubled. Oh trouble I the portion of all mortals, but 
mine in particular. Would I had never known thee, or coukl bid 
thee farewell for ever ; far I meet thee at every tui'n, my pillows 
fare stuffed with thee, my very roses smell of thee, and even my 



LIFE OF COWPER. 157 

Cousin, •who would cure me of all trouble if she could, is some- 
times innocently the cause of trouble to me. 

I now see the unreasonableness of my late trouble, and would, if 
I could trust myself so far, promise never again to trouble either 
myself or you in the same manner, unless warranted by some 
more substantial ground of apprehension. 

What I said concerning Homer, my dear, was spoken, or rather 
written, merely under the influence of a certain jocularity that 1 
felt at that moment. I am, in reality, so far from thinking my- 
self an ass, and my translation a sand-cart, that I rather seem, in 
my own account of the matter, one of those flaming steeds har- 
nessed to the chariot of Apollo, of which we read in the works of 
the ancients. I have lately, I know not how, acquired a certain 
superiority to myself in this business, and in this last revisal have 
elevated the expression to a degree far surpassing its former boast. 
A few evenings since I had an opportunity to try how far I might 
venture to expect such success of my labours as can alone repay 
them, by reading the first book of my Iliad to a friend of ours. He 
dined with you once at Olney. His name is Greatheed, a man of 
letters and of taste. He dined with us, and the evening proving 
dark and dirty, we persuaded him to take a bed. 

I entertained him as I tell you. He heard me with great atten- 
tion, and with evident symptoms of the highest satisfaction, which, 
when I had finished the exhibition, he put out of all doubt by ex- 
pressions which I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. Un- 
win, while I was in another room, that he had never entered into 
the spirit of Homer before, nor had any thing like a due concep- 
tion of his manner. This I have said, knowing that it will please 
you, and will now say no more. 

Adieu ! my dear, will you never speak of coming to Weston 
more ? W. C. 



LETTER LXXXV. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge^ Feb. 14, 1788. 
M'y dear Sir, 

Though it be long since I received your 
last, I have not yet forgotten the impression it made upon me, nor 
how sensibly I felt myself obliged by your unreserved and friendly 
communications. I will not apologize for my silence in the in- 
terim, because, apprized as you are of my present occupation, the 
excuse that I might allege will present itself to you of course, 
and to dilate upon it would therefore be waste of paper. 



1S8 LIFE OF COWPEU. 

You are in possession of the best security imaginable for the 
due improvement of your time, which is a just sense of its value. 
Had I been, when at your age, as much affected by that important 
consideration as I am at present, I should not have devoted, as I 
did, all the earliest part of my life to amusement only. I am 
now in the predicament into which the thoughtlessness of youth 
betrays nine-tenths of mankind, who never discover that the 
health and good spirits which generally accompany it, are, in re- 
ality, blessings only according to the use v/e make of them, till 
advanced years begin to threaten them with the loss of both. How 
much wiser would thousands have been, than now they ever will 
be, had a puny constitution, or some occasional infirmity, con- 
strained them to devote those hours to study and reflection, which, 
for want of some such check, they have given entirely to dissipa-> 
tion! I, therefore, account you happy, who, young as you are, 
need not to be inftn-med that you cannot always be so, and who 
already know, that the materials upon which age can alone build 
its comfort, should be brought together at an earlier ]3eriod. You 
have, indeed, losing a father, lost a friend, but you have not lost 
his instructions. His example was not buried with him, but hap- 
pily for you, (happily, because you are desirous to avail yourself of 
it) still lives in your remembrance, and is cherished in your best 
affections. 

Your last letter was dated from the house of a gentleman who 

was, I believe, my school-fellow ; for the Mr. C- who lived at 

Watford while I had any connection with Hartfordshire, must have 
been the father of the present, and, according to his age and the 
state of his health when I saw him last, must have been long dead. 
I never was acquainted with the family further than by report, 
which always spoke honourably of them, though in aU my journies 
to and from my father's I must have passed the door. The cir- 
cumstance, however, reminds me of the beautiful reflection of 
Glaucus in the sixth Iliad ; beautiful as well for the affecting nature 
of the observation, as for the justness of the comparison and the 
incomparable simplicity of the expression. I feel that I shall not 
be satisfied without transcribing it, and yet, perhaps, my Greek 
may be difiicult to decypher. 

Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man whose Homer is always 
before him. What would I give that he were living now, and 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 15» 

ifrithin my reach ! I, of all men living, have the best excuse for 
indulging such a wish, unreasonable as it may seem ; for I have no 
doubt that the fire of his eye, and the smile of his lips, would put 
me now and then in possession of his full meaning more effectually 
than any commentator. I return you many thanks for the elegies 
which you sent me, both which I think deserving of much com- 
mendation. I should requite you but ill by sending you my mor- 
tuary verses, neither at present can I prevail on myself to do it, 
having no frank, and being conscious that they are not worth 
carriage without one. I have one copy left, and that copy I will 
keep for vou. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXXVL 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1788. 
I have now three letters of yours, my 
dearest cousin, before me, all written in the space of a week, and 
must be, indeed, insensible of kindness, did I not feel yours on this 
occasion, I cannot describe to you, neither could you compre- 
hend it if I should, the manner in which my mind is sometimes 
impressed with melancholy on particular subjects. Your late si- 
lence was such a subject. I heard, saw, and felt a thousand ter- 
rible things, which had no real existence, and was haunted by 
tliem night and day, till they at last extorted from me the doleful 
epistle which T have since wished had been burned before I sent it. 
But the cloud has passed, and, as far as you are concerned, my 
heart is once more at rest. 

Before you gave me the hint, I had once or twice, as I lay on 
my bed, watching the bi'eak of day, ruminated on the subject 
which, in your last but one, you recommend to me. 

Slavery, or a release from slavery, such as the poor Negroes 
have endured, or perhaps both these topics together, appeared to 
me a theme so important at the present juncture, and at the same 
time so susceptible of poetical management, that I more than once 
perceived myself ready to start in that career, could I have al- 
lowed mvself to desert Homer for so long a time as it would have 
cost me to do them justice. 

While I was pondering these things, the public prints informed 
me that Miss More was on the point of publication, having actually 
finished what I had not yet begun. 

The sight of her advertisement convinced me that my best course 
would be that to "wliich I felt myself most inclined, to pei-severe, 



160 LIFE OF COWTER. 

without turning aside to attend to any other call, however alluring, 
in the business that I have in hand. 

It occurred to me, likewise, that I have already borne my tes- 
timony in favour of my black brethren, and that I was one of the 
earliest, if not the first of those who have, in the present day, 
expressed their detestation of the diabolical traffic in question. 

On all these accounts I judged it best to be silent, and especially 
because I cannot doubt that some effectual measures will now be 
taken to alleviate the miseries of their condition, the whole nation 
being in possession of the case, and it being impossible also to 
allege an argument in behalf of man-merchandize that can de- 
serve a hearing. I shall be glad to see Hannah More's poem : she 
is a favourite writer with me, and has more nerve and energy, 
both in her thoughts and language, than half the he-rhymers in the 
kingdom. The Thoughts on the Manners of the Great will like- 
wise be most acceptable. I want to learn as much of the world as 
I can, but to acquire that learning at a distance ; and a book with 
such a title promises fair to serve the purpose effectually. 

I recommend it to you, my dear, by all means to embrace the 
fair occasion, and to put yourself in the way of being squeezed and 
incommoded a few hours, for the sake of hearing and seeing what 
5'ou v/ill never have opportunity to see and hear hereafter, the trial 
of a man who has been greater, and more feared, than the Great 
Mogul himself. Whatever we are at home, we have certainly 
been tyrants in the East ; and if these men have, as they are 
charged, rioted in the miseries of the innocent, and dealt death 
to the guiltless with an unsparing hand, may they receive a re- 
tribution that shall in future make all governors and judges of ours, 
in those distant regions, tremble. While I speak thus, I equally 
wish them acquitted. They were both my school-fellows, and fop 
Hastings I had a particular value. Farewell. 

W. C» 



LETTER LXXXVII. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 22, 1788. 
I do not wonder that your ears and feelings 
were hurt by Mr. Burke's sevei-e invective. But you are to know, 
my dear, or probably you know it already, that the prosecution of 
public delinquents has always, and in all countries, been thus con- 
ducted. The stile of a criminal charge of this kind has been an 
affair settled among orators from the days of TuUy to the present, 
and like all other practices that have obtained for ages, this, in 



LIFE OF COV\TER. 161 

t)articulai-, seems to have been fovuided originally in reason, and 
in the necessity of the case. 

He who accuses another to the state, must not appear himself 
unmoved by the view of crimes with which he charges liim, least 
he should be suspected of fiction, or of precipitancy, or of a con- 
sciousness that, after all, he shall not be able to prove his allega- 
tions. On the contrary, in order to impress the minds of his 
hearers with a persuasion that he himscif at least is convinced of 
the criminality of the prisoner, he must be \ ehcmcnt, energetic, 
rapid; must call him tyrant, and traitor, and every thing else that 
is odious, and all this to his face, because all this, bad as it is, is 
no more than he undertakes to prove in the sequel, and if he can- 
not prove it he must himself appear in a light very little more de- 
sirable, and at the best to have trifled with the tribunal to which 
he has summoned him. 

Thus Tally, in the very first sentence of his first oration against 
Cataline, calls him a monster ; a manner of address in which he 
persisted till said monster, unable to support the fury of his accu- 
ser's eloquence any longer, rose from his seat, elbowed for himself 
a passage through the crowd, and at last burst from the senate>- 
house in an agony, as if the furies themselves had followed him. 

And now, my deai-, though I have thus spoken, and have seemed 
to plead the cause of that species of eloquence which you, and 
every ci'eature who has your sentiments, must necessarily dislike, 
perhaps I am not altogether con\'inced of its propriety. Perhaps, 
at the bottom, I am much more of opinion, that if the charge, 
unaccompanied by any inflammatory matter, and simply detailed) 
being once delivered into the court, and read aloud, the v/itnesses 
were immediately examined, and sentence pronounced according 
to the evidence, not only the process would be shortened, much, 
time and much expense saved, but justice would have at least as 
fair play as now she has. Prejudice is of no use in weighing the 
question — Guilty or not guilty ; and the principal aim, end, and 
effect of such introductory harangues is to create as much preju- 
dice as possible. When you and I, therefore, shall have Uie whole 
and sole management of such a business entrusted to us, we will 
order it otherwise. 

I was glad to learn from the papers that our cousin Henry shone 
ns he did in reading the charge. This must have given mucli 
pleasure to the General. 

Thy ever affeclionate, W. C. 



VOL. I. 



362 LIFE OF COWT£R. 

LETTER LXXXVIII. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 3, 1788* 
One day last week, Mrs. Unwin and I 
having taken our morning walk, and returning homeward through 
the wilderness, met the Throckmortons. A minute after we had 
met them, we heard the cry of hounds at no great distance, and 
mounting the broad stump of an elm, which had been felled, 
and by the aid of which we were enabled to look over the wall, 
we saw them. They were all that time in our orchard : presently 
we heard a terrier, belonging to Mrs. Throckmorton, which you 
may remember by the name of Fury, yelping with much vehe- 
mence, and saw her running through the thickets, within a few 
yards of us, at her utmost speed, as if in pursuit of something, 
which we doubted not was the fox. Before we could reach the 
other end of the wilderness, the hounds entered also ; and when 
we arrived at the gate which opens into the grove, there we found 
the whole weary cavalcade assembled. The huntsman dismount- 
ing, begged leaA^e to follow his hounds on foot, for he was sure, he 
said, that they had killed him — a conclusion which I suppose he 
drew from their profound silence. He was accordingly admitted, 
and with a sagacity that would not have dishonoured the best 
hound in the world, pursuing precisely the same track which the 
fox and the dogs had taken, though he had never had a glimpse 
of either after their first entrance through the rails, arrived where 
he found the slaughtered prey. He soon produced dead Reynard, 
and rejoined us in the grove, with all his dogs about him. Having 
an opportunity to see a ceremony, which I was pretty sure woidd 
never fall in my way again, I determined to stay, and to notice all 
that passed with the most minute attention. The huntsman having, 
by the aid of a pitchfork, lodged Reynard on the arm of an elm, 
at the height of about nine feet from the ground, there left him for 
a considerable time. Tlie gentlemen sat on their horses contem- 
plating the fox, for which they had toiled so hard ; and the hounds, 
assembled at the foot of the tree, with faces not less expressive of 
the most rational delight, contemplated the same object. The 
huntsman remounted ; he cut off a foot, and threw it to the hounds ; 
one of them swallowed it whole like a bolus. He then once more 
alighted, and drawing down the fox by the hinder legs, desired 
the people, who were by this time rather numerous, to open a lane 
for him to the right and left. He was instantly obeyed, when, 
throwing the fox to the distance of some yards, and screaming like 
a fiend, " tear him to pieces," at least six times I'epeatedly, he 



LIFE OF COWPER. 163 

consigned him over absolutely to the pack, who in a few minutes 
devoured him completely. Thus, my dear, as Virgil says, what 
none of the gods could have ventured to promise me, time itself, 
pursuing its accustomed course, has of its own accord presented 
me with. I have been in at the death of a fox, and you know as 
much of the matter as I, who am as well informed as any sports- 
man in England. Yours, VV. C. 



LETTER LXXXIX. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 12, 1788. 
Slavery, and the Manners of the Great, 
I have read. The former I admired, as I do all that Miss More 
writes, as well for energy of expression, as for the tendency of the 
design. I have never yet seen any production of her pen that has 
not recommended itself by both these qualifications. There is 
likewise much good sense in her manner of ti'eating every subject, 
and no mere poetic cant (which is the thing that I abhor) in her 
manner of treating any. And this I say, not because you now know 
and visit her, but it has long been my avowed opinion of her works, 
which I have both spoken and written as often as I have had oc- 
casion to mention them. 

Mr. Wilberforce's little book (if he was the author of it) has 
also charmed me. It must, I should imagine, engage the notice of 
those to whom it is addressed. In that case one may say to them, 
either answer it, or be set down by it. They will do neither. They 
will approve, commend, and forget it. Such has been the fate of 
all exhoi'tations to reform, whether in verse or prose, and however 
closely pressed upon the conscience in all ages, here and there a 
happy individual, to whom God gives grace and wisdom to profit 
by the admonition, is the better for it. But the aggregate body (as 
Gilbert Cooper used to call the multitude) remain, though with a 
very good understanding of the matter, like horse and mule that 
have none. 

We shall now soon lose our neighbours at the Hall. W^c shall 
truly miss them, and long for their return. Mr. Throckmorton 
said to me last night, with sparkling eyes, and a face expressive of 
the highest pleasure, " We compared you this morning with Pope; 
we read your fourth Iliad, and his, and I verily think we shall 
beat him. He has many superfluous lines, and does not interest one. 
When I read your translation, I am deeply affected. I see plainly 
your advantage, and am convinced t'aat Pope spoiled all by at- 
tempting the work in rhyme." His bi'other George, who is my 



364 LIFE OF COWPER. • 

most active amanuensis, and who indeed first introduced the sub* 
ject, seconded all he said. More would have passed, but Mrs. 
Throckmorton having seated herself at the harpsiclicrd, and for 
my amusement merely, my attention was of course turned to her. 
The new vicar of Olney is arrived, and we have exchanged visits. 
He is a plain, sensible man, and pleases me much. A treasury 
for Olney, if Olney can understand his value. Adieu. 

w. c. 



LETTER XC. 
To General COWPER. 

Weston, Dec. 13, 1787'. 
My dear General, 

A letter is not pleasant which excites cu-. 
riosity, but does not gratify it. Such a letter was my last, the de- 
fects of which I therefore take the first opportunity to supply. 
When the condition of our negroes in the Islands was first pre- 
sented to me as a subject for songs, I felt myself not at all allured 
to the undertaking; it seemed to offer only images of horror, 
which could by no means be accommodated to the style of that sort 
of composition. But having a desire to comply, if possible, with 
the request made to me, after turning the matter in my mind as 
many ways as I could, I at last, as I told you, produced three, 
and that which appears to myself the best of those three, I have 
sent you. Of the other two, one is serious, in a strain of thought 
perhaps rather too serious, and I could not help it. The other, 
of which the slave-trader is himself the subject, is somewhat ludi- 
crous. If I could think them worth your seeing, I would, as oppor- 
tunity should occur, send them also. If this amuses you I shall be 
glad. W. C, 



THE MORNING DREAM.* 

A BALLAD. 

To the Tune of Tweed-side. 

'Twas in the glad season of spring. 

Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
I dream 'd v/hat I cannot but sing, 

So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 

* The pycellence of this ballad iiu!uci*s mf. to re-prirt it tiPre, aUhongh it ha? uppesf-ed ip 
l^« iaw edition of Cinvjicr's Poems. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 165 

I dream'd that on ocean afloat, 

Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
While the billows high lifted the boat, 

And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such at least was the form that she wore^ 
Whose beauty impress'd me with awe, 

Never taught me by woman before. 
She sat, and a shield at her side 

Shed light like a sun on the waves, 
And smiling divinely, she cry'd — 

" I go to make freemen of slaves." 

Then raising her voice to a strain 

The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
She sung of the slave's broken chain, 

Wherever her glory appear'd. 
Some clouds which had over us hung 

Fled, chas'd by her melody clear. 
And methought, while she liberty sung, 

'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood. 

To a slave-cultur'd island we came, 
WHiere a demon, her enemy stood. 

Oppression his terrible name. 
In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 

A scourge hung with lashes he bore, 
And stood looking out for his prey 

From Africa's sorrowful shore. 

But soon as, approaching the land. 

That goddess-like woman he view'd, 
The scourge he let fall from his hand. 

With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
I saw him both sicken and die. 

And the moment the monster expir'd 
Heard shouts that ascended the sky. 

From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 

Awaking, how could I but muse 

At what such a dream should betide ? 
But soon my ear caught the glad news. 

Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide — 



365 LIFE OF COWPER. 

That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves 
For the hatred she ever has shown 

To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 
Resolves to have none of her own. 



LETTER XCL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, March 29, 1788, 
My dear Friend, 

I rejoice that you have so successfully 
performed so long a journey without the aid of hoofs or wheels. I 
do not know that a joui'ney on foot exposes a man to moi'e disasters 
than a carriage or a horse ; perhaps it may be the safer way of 
travelling ; but the novelty of it impressed me with some anxiety 
on your account. 

It seems almost incredible to myself, that my company should 
be at all desirable to you, or to any man. I know so little of the 
■world as it goes at present, and labour generally under such a de- 
pression of spirits, especially at those times when I could wish to 
be most cheerful, that my own share in every conversation ap- 
pears to me to be the most insipid thing imaginable. But you say 
you found it otherwise, and I will not, for my own sake, doubt your 
sincerity, de gustibus non est disputandum, and since such is 
yours, I shall leave you in quiet possession of it, wishing, indeed, 
both its continuance and increase. I shall not find a properer place 
in which to say, accept of Mrs. Unwin's acknowledgments, as well 
as mine, for the kindness of your expressions on this subject, and 
be assured of an undissembling welcome at all times when it shall 
suit you to give us your company at W^eston, As to her, she is 
one of the sincerest of the human race, and if she receives you 
widi the appearance of pleasure, it is because she feels it. Her 
behaviour on such cccasions is with her an aflFair of conscience, and 
she dares no more look a falsehood than utter one. 

It is almost time to tell you that I have received the books safe ; 
they have not suffered the least detriment by the way, and I am 
much obliged to you for them. If my translation should be a 
little delayed in consequence of this favour of yours, you must 
take tlie blame on yr.urself. It is impossible not to read the notes 
of a comm.cntator so learned, so judicious, and of so fine a taste 
as Dr. Clarke, having him at one's elbow. Though he has been 
but few hours under my roof, I have already peeped at him, and 
find that he will be instar omnium to me. They are such notes 
exactly as I. wanted. A translator of Homer should ever have 



LIFE OF COWPER. 167 

somebody at hand to say, " that's a beauty," least he should slum- 
ber where his author does not ; not only depreciating, by such in- 
advertency, the work of his original, but depriving, perhaps, his 
own of an embellishment which wanted only to be noticed. 

If you hear ballads sung in the streets on the hardships of the 
negroes in the islands, they are probably mine. It must be an 
lionour to any man to have given a sti-oke to that chain, however 
feeble. I fear, however, that the attempt will fail. The tidings 
which have lately reached me from London concerning it, are not 
the most encouraging. While tlie matter slept, or was but slightly 
adverted to, the English only had their share of shame, in com- 
mon with other nations, on account of it. But since it has been 
canvassed and searched to the bottom, since the public attention 
has been rivetted to the horrible scheme, we can no longer plead 
either that we did not know it, or did not think of it. Woe be to 
us if we refuse the poor captives the redress to which they have 
so clear a right, and prove ourselves, in the sight of God and 
men, indifferent to all considerations but those of gain. Adieu. 

W. C. 



LETTER XCn. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 31, 1783. 
My dearest Cousin, 

Mrs. Thi-ockmorton has promised to 
write to me. I beg that, as often as you shall see her, you w^l 
give her a smart pinch, and say, " have you written to my cou- 
sin ?" I build all my hopes of her performance on this expedient, 
and for so doing these my letters, not patent, shall be your suffi- 
cient warrant. You are thus to give her the question till she shall 
answer. Yes. I have written one more song, and sent it. It is 
called the Morning Dream, and maybe sung to the tune of Tweed- 
side, or any other tune that will suit it, for I am not nice on that 
subject. I would have copied it for you, had I not almost filled 
my sheet without it; but now, my dear, you must stay till the sweet 
sirens of London shall bring it to you, or, if that happy day 
should never arrive, I hereby acknowledge myself your debtor to 
that amount. I shall now probably cease to sing of tortured ne- 
groes, a theme which never pleased me, but which, in the hope 
of doing them some little service, I was not unwilling to handle. 

If any thing could have raised Miss More to a higher place in 
my opinion than she possessed before, it could only be your in- 
formation that, after all, she, and not Mr. Wilberforce, is author 



165 LIFE OF COWPER. 

of that volume. How comes it to pass that she, being a woman, 
writes with a force and energy, and a correctness, hitherto arro* 
gated by the men, and not very frequently displayed even by the 
men themselves ? Adieu. 

W. C, 



LETTER XCIIL 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Weston, May 8, 1788. 
Alas 1 my libraiy — ■! must now give it up 
for a lost thing for ever. The only consolation belonging to the 
circumstance is, or seems to be, that no such loss did ever befall 
any other man, or can ever befall me again. As far as books ares 
concerned, I am 

Totus teres atque rotundus, 

and may set fortune at defiance. Those books which had been my 
fatlier's, had, most of tliem, his arms on the inside cover, but the 
rest no mark, neither his name nor mine. I could mourn for them 
like Sancho for his Dapple, but it would avail me nothing. 

You will oblige me much by sending me Crazy Kate. A gen- 
tleman last winter promised me both her and the Lace-maker, but 
he went to London, that place in Avhich, as in the grave, " all 
things are forgotten," and I have never seen either of them. 

I begin to find some prospect of a conclusion, of the Iliad at 
least, now opening upon me, having reached the eighteenth book. 
Your letter found me yesterday in the very fact of dispersing the 
whole host of Troy, by the voice only of Achilles. There is no- 
thing extravagant in the idea, for you have witnessed a similar 
effect attending even such a voice as mine, at midnight, from a 
garret window, on the dogs of a whole parish, whom I have put 
tio flight in a moment. W, C. 

LETTER XCIV. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 12, 1788. 

It is probable, my dearest coz. that I shall 

not be able to write much, but as much as I can I wiU. The time 

between rising and breakfast is all that I can at present find, and 

this morning I lay longer than usual. 

In the style of the lady's note to you I can easily perceive a 
smatch of her claaracter. Neither men ncr women write witl» 



LIFE OF COWPER. 169 

SHch neatness of expression, who have not given a good deal of 
attention to language, and qualified themselves by study. At the 
same time it gave me much moi'e pleasure to observe, that my 
coz. though not standing on the pinnacle of renown quite so ele- 
vated as that which lifts Mrs. Montagu to die clouds, falls in no 
degree short of her in this particular; so that, should she make 
you a member of her academy, she will do it honour. Suspect 
me not of flattering you, for I abhor the thought ; neither will 
you suspect it. Rocollect that it is an invariable rule with me 
never to pay compliments to those I love ! 

Two days, en suite, I have walked to Gayhurst; a longer jour- 
ney than I have walked on foot these seventeen years. I'he first 
day I went alone, designing merely to make tlie experiment, and 
choosing to be at liberty to return at whatsoever point of my pilgrim- 
age I should find myself fatigued. For I was not without suspi- 
cion that years, and some other things no less injurious than } cars, 
viz. melancholy and distress of mind, might, by this time, ha^ e 
unfitted me for such achievements. But I found it otherwise. I 
reached the church, Avhich stands, as you know, in the garden, in 
fifty-five minutes, and returned in ditto time to V^'eston. Tlie 
next day I took the same walk with Mr. Powley, having a desire 
to show him the prettiest place in the country. I not only per- 
formed these two excursions Avithout injury to my health, but have, 
by means of them, gained indisputable proof, that my ambulatory 
facidty is not yet impaired ; a discovery which, considering that to 
my feet alone I am likely, as I have ever been, to be indebted always 
for my transportation from place to place, I find very delectable. 

You will find in the last Gentleman's Magazine, a sonnet ad- 
dressed to Henry Cowper, signed T. H. I am the writer of it. 
No creature knows this but yourself: you will make what use of 
tlie intelligence you shall see good. W. C. 



LETTER XCV. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

May 24, 1788. 
My dear Friend, 

For two excellent prints, I return you my 
sincere acknowledgments. I cannot say that poor Kate resembles 
much the original, who was neither so young, nor so handsome as 
the pencil has represented her ; but she was a figiu'e well suited 
to the account given of her in the Task, and has a face exceedingly 
expressive of despairing melancholy. The lace-maker is acci- 
dentally a good likeness of a young woman, once our neighbour, 

YOL. X. z 



iro LIFE OF COWPER. 

"who was hardly less handsome than the picture twenty years ago J 
but the loss of one husband, and the acquisition of another, have, 
since that time, impaired her much ; yet she might still be sup- 
posed to have sat to the artist. 

We dined yesterday with your friend and mine, the most com- 
panionable and domestic Mr. C The whole kingdom can 
hardly furnish a spectacle more pleasing to a man who has a taste 
for true happiness, than himself, Mrs. C , and their multitu- 
dinous family. Seven long miles are interposed between us, or 
perhaps I should oftener have an opportunity of declaiming on this 
subject. 

I am now in the nineteenth book of the Iliad, and on the point of 
displaying such feats of heroism, performed by Achilles, as make 
all other achievements trivial. I may well exclaim. Oh ! for a 
Muse of fire ! especially having not only a great host to cope with, 
but a great river also ; much, however, may be done when Homer 
leads the way. I should not have chosen to have been the original 
author of such a business, even though all the Nine had stood at 
my elbow. Time has wonderful effects. We admire that in an 
ancient, for which we should send a modern bard to Bedlam. 

I saw at Mr. C 's a great curiosity ; an antique bust of Pa- 
ris, in Parian marble. You will conclude that it interested me ex- 
ceedingly. I pleased myself with supposing that it once stood in 
Helen's chamber. It was in fact brought from the Levant, and 
though not well mended, (for it had suffered much by time) is an 
admirable performance. W. C. 

LETTER XCVL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

T/ie Lodge, May 27, 1788.. 
The General, in a letter which came 
yesterday, sent mc inclosed a copy of my §onnet ; thus intro- 
ducing it. 

" I send a copy of verses somebody has written in the Gentle- 
man's Magazine for April last. Independent of my partiality to- 
wards the subject, I think the lines themselves are good." 

Thus it appears, that my poetical adventure has succeeded to 
my wish ; and I write to him by this post, on purpose to inform 
him that the somebody in question is myself. 

I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu stands at the head of 
all that is called learned, and that every critic veils his bonnet to 
her superior judgment. I am now reading, and have reached the 
middle of her essay on the genius of Shakspeare ; a book of whicl\, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 171 

strange as it may seem, though I must have read it formerly, I 
had absohitely forgot the existence. 

The learning, the good sense, the sound judgment, and the wit 
displayed in it, fully justify, not only my compliment, but all com- 
pliments that either have been already paid to her talents, or shall 
be paid hereafter. Voltaire, I doubt not, rejoiced that his anta- 
gonist wrote in English, and that his countrymen could not pos- 
sibly be judges of the dispute. Could they have known how much 
she was in the right, and by how many thousand miles the bard of 
Avon is superior to all their dramatists, the French critic would 
have lost half his fame among them. 

I saw at Mr. C— — 's a head of Paris ; an antique of Parian 
marble. His uncle, who left him the estate, brought it, as I un- 
derstand Mr. C-— , from the Levant: you may suppose I 
viewed it with all the enthusiasm that belongs to a translator of 
Homer. It is, in reality, a great curiosity, and highly valuable. 

Our friend Sephus has sent me two prints ; the Lace-maker and 
Crazy Kate. These also I have contemplated with pleasure ; 
having, as you know, a particular interest in them. The former 
of them is not more beautiftil than a lace-maker, once our neigh- 
bour at Olney ; though the artist has assembled as many charms in 
her countenance as I ever saw in any countenance, one excepted. 
Kate is both younger and handsomer than the original from which 
I drew ; but she is in a good style, and as mad as need be. 

How does this hot weather suit thee, my dear, in London ? as 
for me, with all my colonades and bowers, I am quite oppressed 
by it. W. C. 



LETTER XCVn. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge^ June 3, 1788. 
Mt dearest Co2. 

The excessive heat of these last few days 
was, indeed, oppressive ; but, excepting the languor that it occa- 
sioned both in my mind and body, it was far from being prejudi- 
cial to me. It opened ten thousand pores, by which as many mis- 
chiefs, the effects of long obstruction, began to breathe themselves 
forth abundantly. Then came an east wind, baneful to me at all 
times, but following so closely such a sultry season, uncommonly 
noxious. To speak in the seaman's phrase, not entirely strange 
to you, I was taken all aback ; and tlie humours wliich would have 
escaped, if old Eurus would have given them leave, finding every 
door shut, have fallen into my eyes. But, in a country like this, 



ir^ LIFE OF COWPER. 

poor miserable mortals must be content to sufFer all that sudden 
and violent changes can inflict ; and if they are quit for about half 
the plagues that Caliban calls down on Prospero, they may say we 
are well off, and dance for joy, if the rheumatism or cramp will 
let them. 

Did you ever see an advertisement by one Fowle, a dancing- 
master of Newport -Pagnel ? If not, I will contrive to send it you 
for your amusement. It is the most extravagantly ludicrous affair 
of the kind I ever saw. The author of it had the good hap to be 
crazed, or he had never produced any thing half so clever ; for 
you will ever observe, that they who are said to have lost their 
wits, have more than other people. It is, therefore, only a slander, 
■with which envy prompts the malignity of persons in their senses, 
to asperse those who are wittier than themselves. But there are 
countries in the world, where the mad have justice done them, 
where they are revered as the subjects of inspiration, and consulted 
as oracles. Poor Fowle would have made a figure there. 

w. c. 



LETTER XCVIII. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Weston, June 8, 3788. 
My dear Friend, 

Your letter brought me the very first 
intelligence of the event it mentions. My last letter from Lady 
Hesketh gave me reason enough to expect it ; but the certainty of 
it was unknown to me till I learned it by your information. If gra- 
dual decline, the consequence of great age, be a sufficient prepa- 
ration of the mind to encounter such a loss, our minds were cer- 
tainly prepared to meet it : yet, to you, I need not say, that no 
preparation can supersede the feelings of the heart on such occa- 
sions. While our friends yet live, inhabitants of the same world 
"with ourselves, they seem still to live to us; we are sure that they 
sometimes think of us ; and however improbable it may seem, it 
is never impossible that we may see each other once again. But 
the grave, like a great gulph, swallows all such expectations: and 
in the moment when a beloved friend sinks into it, a tliousand ten- 
der recollections awaken a regret, that will be felt in spite of all 
reasonings, and let our warnings have been what they may. Thus 
it is I take my last leave of poor Ashley, whose heart towards me 
■yvas ever truly parental, and to whose memory I owe a tenderness 
and respect that will never leave me. V^^ C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 173 



LETTER XCIX. 

To Lady HESKETH. 
My dear Coz. The Lodge, Jw??e 10, irS8. 

Your kind letter of precaution to Mr. 
Gregson, sent him hither as soon as chapel service was ended in 
the evening; but he found me already appi'ized of the event that 
occasioned it, by a line from Sephus, received a few hours before. 
My dear uncle's death awakened in me many reflections, which, 
for a time, sunk my spirits. A man, like him, would have been 
mourned, had he doubled the age he reached ; at any age, his 
death would have been felt as a loss that no survivor could repair. 
And though it was not probable that, for my own part, I should 
ever see him more, yet the consciousness that he still lived was a 
comfort to me : let it comfort us now, that we have lost him only 
at a time when nature could afford him to us no longer ; that as 
his life was blameless, so was his death without anguish ; and that 
he is gone to heaven. I know not that human life, in its most 
prosperous state, can present any thing to our wishes half so 
desirable as such a close of it. 

Not to mingle this subject with others that would ill suit with 
it, I will add no more at present, than a warm hope that you and 
ji-our sister will be able effectually to avail yourselves of all the 
consolatory matter with which it abounds. You gave yourselves, 
while he lived, to a father, whose life was doubtless prolonged by 
your attentions, and whose tenderness of disposition made him 
always deeply sensible of your kindness in this respect, as well as 
in many others. His old age Avas the happiest that I have ever 
Ifnown; and I give you both joy of having had so fair an opportu- 
nity, and of having so well used it, to approve yourselves equal to 
the calls of such a duty in the sight of God and man. 

W. C. 



LETTER C. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 15, 1788. 
Although I knew that j-ou must be very 
nmch occupied on the present most affecting occasion, yet not 
hearing from you, I began to be very uneasy on your account, and 
to fear that your health might have suffered by the fatigue, both of 
body and spirits, that you must have undergone, till a letter, that 
reached me yesterday, from the General, set my heart at rest, so 
iar as that cause of anxiety was hi question. He speaks of my 



174 LIFE OF COWPER. 

uncle in the tenderest terms ; such as show how truly sensible h« 
was of the amiableness and excellence of his character, and how 
deeply he regrets his loss. We have indeed lost one, who has not 
left his like in the present generation of our family, and whose 
equal, in all respects, no future of it will probably produce. My 
memory retains so perfect an impression of him, that had I been 
a painter instead of a poet, I could, from those faithful traces, have 
pei'petuated his face and form with the most minute exactness. 
And this I the rather wonder at, because some with whom I was 
equally conversant five and twenty years ago, have almost faded 
out of all recollection with me : but he made impression not soon 
to be eftaced ; and was in figure, in temper, and manner, and in 
numerous other respects, such as I shall never behold again. I of- 
ten think what a joyful interview there has been between him and 
some of his cotemporaries who went before him. Tlie truth of the 
matter is, my dear, that they are the happy ones, and that we 
shall never be such ourselves till we have joined the party. Can 
there be any thing so worthy of our warmest wishes, as to enter on 
an eternal, unchangeable state, in blessed fellowship and comma-, 
nion with those whose society we valued most, and for the best rea- 
sons while they continued with us ? A few steps more, through a 
vain foolish world, and this happiness will be yours : but be not 
hasty, my dear, to accomplish thy journey I For of all that live, 
thou art one whom I can least spare, for thou also art one wha 
ishall not leave thy equal behind thee. W. C. 

LETTER CL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, June 23, 1788^ 
When I tell you that an unanswered letter 
troubles mv conscience, in some degree, like a crime, you will 
think me endued with a most heroic patience, who have so long 
submitted to that trouble on account of yours not answered yet. 
But the truth is that I have been much engaged. Homer, you 
know, affords me constant employment: besides which, I have 
rather what may be called, considering the privacy in which I have 
long lived, a numerous correspondence : to one of my friends in 
particular, a near and much loved relation, I write weekly, and 
sometimes twice in the week : nor are these my only excuses ; the 
sudden changes of the weather have much affected me, and es- 
pecially with a disorder most unfavourable to letter-writing, an in- 
flammation in my eyes. With all these apologies I approach you 
once more, not altogether despairing of forgiveness. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 175 

it has pleased God to give us rain, without which this part of our 
country at least must soon have become a desart. The meadows 
have been parched to a January brown, and we have foddered our 
cattle for some time, as in the winter. — The goodness and power 
of God are never, I believe, so universally acknowledged as at the 
end of a long drought. Man is naturally a self-sufficient animal, 
and in all concerns that seem to lie within the sphere of his own 
ability, thinks little or not at all of the need he always has of pro- 
tection and furtherance from above: but he is sensible that the 
clouds will not assemble at his bidding, and that though the clouds 
assemble, they will not fall in showers because he commands them. 
When, therefore, at last, the blessing descends, you shall hear, 
even in the streets, the most irreligious and thoughtless, with one 
voice, exclaim, " Thank God ! " — confessing themselves indebted to 
his favour, and willing, at least so far as words go, to give him the 
glory, I can hardly doubt, therefore, that the earth is sometimes 
parched, and the crops endangered, in order that the multitude 
may not want a memento to whom they owe them, nor absolutely 
forget the power on which all depend for all things. 

Our solitary part of the year is over. Mrs. Uuwin's daughter 
and son-in-law have lately spent some time with us : we shall 
shortly receive from London our old friends the Newtons, (he was 
once minister of Olney) and when they leave us, we expect that 
Lady Hesketh will succeed them, perhaps to spend the summer 
here, and possibly the winter also. The summer, indeed, is leav- 
ing us at a rapid rate, as do all the seasons ; and though I have 
marked their flight so often, I know not which is the swiftest. 
Man is never so deluded as when he dreams of his o%vn duration. 
Tlae answer of the old Patriarch to Pharaoh may be adopted by 
every man at the close of the longest life — " Few and evil have 
been the days of the years of my pilgrimage." Whether we look 
back from fifty, or from twice fift}', the past appears equally a 
di'eam ; and we can only be said truly to have lived while we have 
been profitably employed. Alas! then, making the necessary de- 
ductions, how short is life! Were men, in general, to save them- 
selves all the steps they take to no purpose, or to a bad one, what 
numbers, who are now active, would become sedentary ! 

Thus I have sermonized through my paper. Living where you 
live, you can bear with me the better. I always follow the leading 
of my unconstrained thoughts when I write to a friend, be they 
grave or otherwise. Homer reminds me of you every day. I am 
now in the twenty-first Iliad. Adieu. 

W. C- 



irfi LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER Cn. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge^ July 28, liTSS^ 
It is in vain that you tell me you have na 
talent at description, while, in fact, you describe better than any 
body. You have given me a most complete idea of your mansion 
and its situation ; and I doubt not that, with your letter in my hand, 
by way of map, could I be set down on the spot in a moment, I 
should find myself qualified to take my walks and my pastime in 
whatever quarter of your paradise it should please me the most to 
visit. We also, as you know, have scenes at Weston worthy of 
description ; but because you know them well, I will only say that 
one of them has, Avithin these few days, been much improved — I 
mean the lime-walk. By the help of the axe and the wood-bill, 
which have of late been constantly employed in cutting out all 
straggling branches that intercepted the arch, Mr. Throckmorton 
has now defined it with such exactness, that no cathedral in the 
world can show one of more magnificence or lieauty. I bless my- 
self that I live so near it; foi', were it distant several miles, it 
would be well worth while to visit it, merely as an object of taste ; 
not to mention the refreshment of such a gloom both to the eyes 
and spirits. And these are the things which our modern improvers 
of parks and pleasure grounds have displaced without mercy ; be- 
cause, forsooth, they are rectilinear. It is a wonder they do not 
quarrel with the sun-beams for the same reason. 

Have you seen the account of five hundred celebrated authors 
now living ? I am one of them ; but stand charged with the high 
crime and misdemeanor of totally neglecting method — an accusa- 
tion which, if the gentleman would take the pains to read me, he 
would find sufficiently refuted. I am conscious, at least myself, of 
having laboured much in the arrangement of my matter, and of 
having given to the several parts of every book of the Task, as 
well as to each poem in the first volume, that sort of slight con- 
nection which poetry demands ; for in poetry (except professedly 
of the didactic kind) a logical precision would be stiff, pedantic, 
and ridiculous. But there is no pleasing some critics ; the comfort 
is, that I am contented whether they be pleased or not. At the 
same time, to my honour be it spoken, the chronicler of us five 
hundred prodigies bestows on me, for ought I know, more com- 
mendations than on any other of my confraternity. May he live 
to write the histories of as many thousand poets, and find me the 
very best among them ! Amen ! 

I join with you, my dearest coz. in v/ishing that I owned the fee» 



LIFE OF COWPER. 177 

simple of all tlie beautiful scenes around you ; but such emoluments 
were never designed for poets. Am I not happier than ever poet 
was, in having thee for my cousin ; and in the expectation of thy 
arrival here, whenever Strawberry-Hill shall lose thee ? 

Ever thine, ^ W« C, 



LETTER Cin. 
to Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, August 9, 1788* 
The Newtons are still here, and continue 
with us, I believe, until the 15 th of the month. Here is also my 
friend Mr. Rose, a valuable young man, who, attracted by the ef- 
fluvia of my genius, found me out in my retirement last January 
twelvemonth. I have not permitted him to be idle, but have made 
him transcribe for me the twelfth book of tlie Iliad. He brings me 
the compliments of several of the literati with whom he is ac- 
quainted in town; and tells me that, from Dr. Maclean, whom 
he saw lately, he learns that my book is in the hands of sixty dif- 
ferent persons at the Hague, who are all enchanted with it ; not 
forgetting the said Dr. Maclean himself, who tells him that he reads 
It every day, and is always the better for it. Oh rare we ! 

I have been employed this morning in composing a Latin motto 
for the King's clock ; the embeUishments of which are by Mr. 
Bacon. That gentleman breakfasted with us on Wednesday, hav- 
ing come thirty-seven miles out of his way on purpose to see your 
cousin. At his request I have done it, and have made two ; he 
will choose that which liketh him best. Mr. Bacon is a most excel- 
lent man, and a most agreeable companion ; I would that he lived 
not so remote, or that he had more opportunity of travelling. 

There is not, so far as I know, a s)'llable of the rhyming cor- 
respondence between me and my poor brother left, save and ex- 
cept the six lines of it quoted in yours. I had the whole of it, but 
it perished in the wreck of a thousand other things when I left the 
Temple. 

Breakfast calls. Adieu. W. C. 



LETTER CIV. 

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

My dear Friend, We^toti, August 18, 1788. 

I left you with a sensible regret, alleviated 

only by the consideration, that I shall see you again in October. I 

was under some concern also, least, not being able to give you any 

VOL. r, A a 



J7S LIFE OF COWPER. 

certain direction* myself, nor knowing where you might find a- 
guide, you should wander and fatigue yourself, good walker as youi 
are, before ycu should reach Northampton. Pei-haps you heard 
me whistle just after our separation^ it was to call back Beau, who 
"was running after you with all speed to intreat you to return with 
me. For my part, I took my own time to return, and did not 
reach home till after one ; and then so weary that I was glad of my 
great chair ; to the comforts of which I added a crust, and a glass 
of rum and water, not without great occasion. Such a foot-traveller 
am I. 

I am writing on Monday, but whether I shall finish my letter 
this morning depends on Mrs. Unwin's coming sooner or later 
down to breakfast. Something tells me that you set off to-day for 
Birmingham ; and though it be a sort of Iricism to say here, " I be- 
seech you take care of yourself, for the day threatens great heat," 1 
cannot help it ; the weather may be cold enough at the time when 
that good advice shall reach you, but be it hot or be it cold, to a 
man who travels as you travel, " take care of yourself," can never 
be an unreasonable caution. I am sometimes distressed on this ac-' 
count, for though you are yoimg, and well made for such exploits, 
those very circumstances are more likely than any thing to betray 
you into danger. 

Consule quid valeant filanttt, quid ferre recusent. 

The Newtons left us on Friday. We frequently talked about 
you after your departure, and every thing that was spoken was to 
your advantage. I know they will be glad to see you in London, 
and pei'haps when your summer and autumn rambles are over, you- 
■will afford them that pleasure. The Throckmortons are equally 
well disposed to you; and them also I recommend to you as a va- 
luable connection ; the rather, because you can only cultivate it at 
Weston. 

I have not been idle since you went, having not only laboured- 
as usual at the Iliad, but composed a s/iick and s/?a7i new piece, 
called, " The Dog and the Water-lily ;" which you shall see when 
we meet again. I believe I related to you the incident which is the 
subject of it. I have also read most of Lavater's Aphorisms ; 
tSiey appear to me some of them wise, many of them whimsical, a 
few of them false, and not a few of them extravagant. Nil illi 
medium. If he finds in a man the feature or quality that he ap- ' 
proves, he deifies him ; if the contrary, he is a devil. His ver- 
dict is in neither case, I suppose, a just one. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 179 

LETTER CV. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, Sept. 11, 1788. 
My dear Friend, 

Since your departure I have twice visited 
the oak, and with an intention to push my inquiries a mile beyond 
it, where it seems I should have found another oak much larger, 
and much more respectable than the former ; but once I was hin- 
dered by the rain, and once by the sultriness of the day. This lat- 
ter oak has been known by the name of Judith many ages ; and is 
said to have been an oak at the time of the conquest. If I have 
not an opportunity to reach it before your arrival here, we will at- 
tempt that exploit together ; and even if I should have been able to 
visit it ere you come, I shall yet be glad to do so ; for the pleasure 
of extraordinary sights, like all other pleasures, is doubled by the 
participation of a friend. 

You wish for a copy of my little dog's eulogium, which I will 
therefore transcribe ; but by so doing, I shall leave myself but 
scanty room for prose. 

I shall be sorry if our neighbours at the Hall should have left it 
■when we have the pleasure of seeing you. I want you to see them 
soon again, that a little consuetudo may wear off restraint; and you 
may be able to improve the advantage you have already gained in 
that quarter. I pitied you for the fears which deprived you of your 
vmcle's company, and the more, having suffered so much by those 
fears myself. Fight against that vicious fear, for such it is, as stre- 
nuously as you can. It is the worst enemy that can attack a man 
destined to the forum — it ruined me. To associate as much as pos- 
sible with the most respectable company, for good sense and good 
breeding, is, I believe, the only, at least I am sure it is the best 
remedy. The society of men of pleasure will not cure it, but ra- 
ther leaves us more exposed to its influence in company of better 
persons. 

Now for the Dog and the Water-lily.* W. C. 



* .V(3/« by the Editor. — As the poem inserted in this letter has been printed repeatedly, I shall; 
here introduce in its stead two sprighily little poems on the same favourite spauiel, written, 
indeed, at a later pi.riod. but liiiherto, I believe, unpuWJihcd, 



18§ LIFE OF COWPER. 

I. 

On a SPANIEL, called BEAU, killing a YOUNG BIRD, 

A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 

Well-fed, and at his ease. 
Should wiser be than to pursue 

Each trifle that he sees. 

But you have kill'd a tiny bird, 

Which flew not till to-day. 
Against my orders, whom you heard 

Forbidding you the prey. 

Nor did you kill that you might eat, 

And ease a doggish pain, 
For him, though chas'd with furious heatj 

You left where he was slain, 

Nor was he of the thievish sort, 

Or one whom blood allures. 
But innocent was all his sport 

Wliom you have torn for yours. 

My Dog ! what remedy remains, 

Since, teach you all I can, 
I see you, after all my pains. 

So much resemble man ? 

II. 
BEAU'S REPLY, 

Sir ! when I flew to seize the bird, 

In spite of your command, 
A louder voice than yours I heardj 

And harder to withstand ; 

You cried — " Forbear !" — but in my breast 

A mightier cried — '" Pi'oceed!" 
*Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest 

Jmpell'd me tp the deed. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 181 



I 



Yet much as Nature I respect, 

I ventur'd once to break 
(As you, perhaps, may recollect) 

Her precept, for your sake : 

And when your linnet, on a day, 

Passing his prison door. 
Had flutter'd all his strength away, 

And panting, press'd the floor ; 

Well knowing him a sacred thing, 

Not destin'd to my tooth, 
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing. 

And lick'd his feathers smooth. 

Let my obedience then excuse 

My disobedience now 1 
Nor some reproof yourself refuse 

From your aggriev'd Bow-wow ! 

If killing birds be such a crime, 
(Which I can hardly see) 

What think you, Sir, of killing time 
With verse addi'ess'd to me ? 



LETTER CVL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

My dear Friend, Weston, Sefit. 25, 1^88. 

Say, what is the thing, by my riddle design 'd. 
Which you carried to London, and yet left behind? 

I expect your answer, and without a fee. The half hour next be- 
fore breakfast I devote to you : the moment Mrs. Unwin arrives 
in the study, be what I have written much or little, I shall make 
my bow, and take leave. If you live to be a Judge, as if I augur 
right you will, I shall expect to hear of a walking circuit. 

I was shocked at what you tell me of. Superior talents, it seems, 
give no security for propriety of conduct ; on the contrary, having 
a natural tendency to nourish pride, they often betray the possessor 
into such mistakes as men more moderately gifted never commit. 
Ability, therefore, is not wisdom ; and an ounce of gi'ace is a bet- 
ter guard against gross absurdity than the brightest talents in the 
vorld, 



182 LIFE OF COWPER. 

I rejoice that you are prepared for transcript work; here will 
be plenty for you. The day on which you shall receive this, I beg 
you will remember to drink one glass at least to the success of the 
Iliad, which I finished the day before yesterday, and yesterday be- 
gan the Odyssey. It will be some time before I shall perceive my- 
self travelling in another road ; the objects around me are, at pre- 
sent, so much the same ; Olympus and a council of gods meet me 
at my first entrance. To tell you the truth, I am weary of heroes 
and deities, and, with reverence be it spoken, shall be glad, for the 
variety sake, to exchange their company for that of a Cyclops, 

Weston has not been without its tragedies since you left us : 
Mrs. Throckmorton's piping bulfinch has been eaten by a rat, and 
the villain left nothing but poor Bully's beak behind him. It will 
be a wonder if this event does not, at some convenient time, em- 
ploy my versifying passion. Did ever fair lady, from the Lesbia 
of Catullus to the present day, lose her bird, and find no poet to 
commemorate the loss ? W. C. 



LETTER CVIL 

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, A'bv. 30, 1788, 
My dear Friend, 

Your letter, accompanying the books with 
which you have favoured me, and for which I return you a thou- 
sand thanks, did not arrive till yesterday. I shall have great plea- 
ture in taking, now and then, a peep at my old friend Vincent 
Bourne, the neatest of all men in his versification, though, when I 
•was under his ubhership at Westminster, the most slovenly in his 
person. He was so inattentive to his boys, and so indifferent whe- 
ther they brought him good or bad exercises, or none at all, that 
he seemed determined, as he was the best, so to be the last Latin 
poet of the Westminster line ; a plot which, I believe, he executed 
very successfully, for I have not heard of any who has at all de- 
served to be compared with him. 

We have had hardly any rain or snow since you left us ; the 
roads are accordingly as dry as in the middle of summer, and the 
opportunity of walking much more favourable. We have no sea- 
son, in my mind, so pleasant as such a winter ; and I account it 
particularly fortunate that such it proves, my cousin being with us. 
She is in good health, and cheerful; so are we all: and this I 
say, knowing you will be glad to hear it, for you have seen the 
time when this could not be said of all your friends at Weston. 
We shall rejoice to see you here at Christmas ; but I recollect 



LIFE OF COWPER. 18S 

when I hinted such an excursion by word of mouth, you gave rae 
:fio great encouragement to expect you. Minds alter, and yours 
may be of the number of those that do so ; and if it should, you 
Avill be entirely welcome to us all. Were thei'e no other reason 
for your coming than merely the pleasure it Avill afford to us, that 
reason alone would be sufficient ; but after so many toils, and with 
SO many more in prospect, it seems essential to your well-being 
that you should allow yourself a i-espite, which, perhaps, you can 
take as comfortably, I am sure as quietly, hei-e as any where. 

The ladies beg to be remembered to you with all possible esteem 
and regard : they are just come down to breakfast, and being at 
this moment extremely talkative, obligfe me to put an end to my 
letter. Adieu. W. C» 



LETTER CVin. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge, Jan. 19, 17S9. 
My dear Sir, 

I have taken, since you went away, many 
of the walks which we have taken together, and none of them, I 
believe, without thoughts of you. I have, though not a good 
memory in general, yet a good local memory ; and can recollect. 
By the help of a tree, or a stile, what you said on that particular 
spot. For this reason I purpose, when the summer is come, to 
walk with a book in my ]50cket : what I read at my fire-side E 
Forget, but what I read under a hedge, or at the side of a pond, 
that pond and that hedge will alwaj's bring to my remembrance : 
and this is a sort of memoria technica which I would recommend- 
to you, if I did not know that you have no occasion for it. 

I am reading Sir John Hawkins, and still hold the same opi- 
i^ion of his book as when you were here. There are in it un- 
doubtedly some aukwardnesses of phrase, and, v/hich is worse, 
here and there some unequivocal indications of a vanity not easily 
pardonable in a man of his years ; but, on the whole, I find it amus- 
ing, and to me at least, to whom every thing that has passed in 
the literary world within these fiv^e-and-twenty years is new, suf- 
ficiently replete Avith information. Mr. Throckmorton told inc, 
about three days since, that it was lately I'ecommended to him, hy 
a sensible man, as a book that would give him great insight into 
tlie history of modern literature and modern men of letters; a 
commendation which I really think it merits. Fifty years hence, 
perhaps, the world will feel itself obliged to him. 

V\ . C. 



184 LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER CIX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
My dear S>r, The Lodge, Jan. 24, 1789* 

We have heard from my cousin in Nor- 
folk-street ; she reached home safely, and in good time. An ob- 
servation suggests itself, whicli, though I have but little time for 
observation-making, I must allow myself time to mention. Acci- 
dents, as v/e call them, generally occur when there seems least 
reason to expect them: if a friend of ours travels far in indiffei'ent 
roads, and at an unfavourable season, we are i-easonably alarmed 
for the safety of one in whom we take so much interest ; yet how 
seldom do we hear a tragical account of such a journey t It is, oa 
the contrary, at home, in our yard or garden, perhaps in our par- 
lour, that disaster finds us ; in any place, in short, where we seem 
perfectly out of the reach of danger. The lesson inculcated by 
such a procedure on the part of Providence towards us, seems to 
be that of perpetual dependence. 

Having pi'eached this sermon, I must hasten to a close : yo^ 
know that I am not idle, nor can I afford to be so: I would gladly 
spend more time with you, but by some means or other this day 
has hitherto proved a day of hindrance and confusion. 

w. c. 



LETTER ex. 

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge^ May 20, 17S9^ 
My dear Sir^ 

Finding myself, between twelve and one, 
at the end of the seventeenth book of the Odyssey, I give the in- 
terval between the present moment and the time of walking to you. 
If I write letters before I sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits 
too flat for poetry, and too flat for letter-writing if I address my- 
self to Homer first; but the last I choose as the least evil, be- 
cause my friends will pardon my dulness, but the public will not. 

I had been some days uneasy on your account when yours ar- 
rived. We should have rejoiced to have seen you, would your 
engagements have permitted : but in the autumn, Fhope, if not be- 
fore, we shall have the pleasure to receive you. At what time Ave 
may expect Lady Hesketh at present I know not ; but imagine that 
at any time after tlie month of June you will be sure to find her 
with us, which I mention, knowiiig that to meet you will add a 
relish to all the pleasures she can find at Weston. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 183 

When I wrote those lines on the Queen's visit, I thought I had 
performed well ; but it belongs to me, as I have told you before, to 
dislike whatever I write when it has been written a month. The 
performance was, therefore, sinking in my esteem, when your ap- 
probation of it arriving in good time, buoyed it up again. It will 
now keep possession of the place it holds in my good opinion, be- 
cause it has been favoured with yours ; and a copy will certainly 
be at your service whenever you choose to have one. 

Nothing is more certain than that when I wrote the line, 

God made the country, and man made the town, 

1 had not the least recollection of that very similar one which you 
quote from Hawkins Brown. It convinces me that critics (and 
none moi-e than Warton, in his Notes on Milton's minor Poems) 
liave often charged authors with borrowing what they drew from 
their own fund. Bro\vn was an entertaining companion when he 
had drank his bottle, but not before : this proved a snare to him, 
and he would sometimes drink too much ; but I know not that he 
was chargeable with any other irregularities. He had tliose 
among his intimates, who would not have been such, had he been 
otherwise viciously inclined ; the Duncombs, in particular, father 
and son, who were of unblemished morals. W» C. 



ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, 

The Mght of the 17th March, 1789. 

Wlien long sequester 'd from his throne, 

George took his seat again. 
By right of wortli, not blood alone, 

Entitled here to reign \ 

Then Loyalty, with all her lamps 

New trimm'd, a gallant show ! 
Chasing the darkness, and the damps. 

Set London in a glow. 

'Twas hard to tell, of streets, or squares, 

Which form'd the chief display, 
These most resembling cluster'd stars, 

Those the long milky way. 
VOL. I. B b 



186 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Bright shone the roofs, the domeSj the spires^ 

And rockets flew, self-driven, 
To hang their momentary fires 

Amid the vault of heaven. 

So, fire with water to compare. 

The ocean serves on high, 
Up-spouted by a whale in air, 

T' express unwieldy joy. 

Had all the pageants of the world 

In one procession join'd. 
And all the banners been unfurl'd 

That heralds e'er design 'd ; 

For no such sight had England's Queen- 
Forsaken her retreat. 

Where George recover'd made a scene 
Sweet always, doubly sweet. 

Yet glad she came that night to prove 

A witness undescried. 
How much the object of her love 

Was lov'd by all beside. 

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er, 

In aid of her design — 
Darkness, O Queen \ ne'er call'd before 

To veil a deed of thine ! 

On borrow'd wheels away she flies, 

Resolv'd to be unknown. 
And gratify no curious eyes 

That night, except her own. 

Arriv'd, a night like noon she sees, 

And hears the million hum ; 
As all by instinct, like the bees. 

Had known their sov'reign come. 

Pleas'd she beheld aloft pourtray'd 

On many a splendid wall. 
Emblems of health, and heav'nly aid, 

And George the theme of all. 



LIFE OF COWPER. ^57 



Unlike the jenigmatic line, 

So difficult to spell ! 
Which shook Belshazzai", at his wine, 

The night his city fell. 

Soon watery grew her eyes, and dim, 

But with a joyful tear ! 
None else, except in pray'r for lum^ 

George ever drew from her. 

It was a scene in ev'ry part 

Like that in fable feign'd, 
And seem'd by some magician's art 

Created, and sustain'd. 

But other magic there she knew 

Had been exerted, none, 
To raise such wonders in her view. 

Save love of George alone I 

That cordial thought her spirit cheer 'd, 
And through the cumb'i'ous throng. 

Not else unworthy to be fear'd. 
Convey 'd her calm along. 

So, ancient poets say, serene 
The sea-maid rides the waves, 

And fearless of the billowy scene, 
Her peaceful bosom laves. 

With more than astronomic eyes 
She view'd the sparkling show; 

One Georgian Star adorns the skies — 
She myriads found below. 

Yet let the glories of a night 
Like that, once seen, suffice ! 

Heav'n grant us no such future sight, 
Such precious woe the price ! 



1«^ LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER CXL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
My DEAR Friend, The Lodge, June 5, 1789« 

I am going to give you a deal of trouble, 
but London folks must be content to be troubled by country folks ; 
for in London only can our strange necessities be supplied. You 
must buy for me, if you please, a cuckow-clock ; and now I will 
tell you where they are sold, which, Londoner' as you are, it is 
possible you may not know, "^^^j ^^'^ sold, I am informed, at 
more houses than one in that narrow part of Holborn which leads 
into Broad St. Giles'. It seems they are well-going clocks, and 
cheap, which are the two best recommendations of any clock. 
They are made in Germany, and such numbers of them are annu- 
ally imported, that they are become even a considerable article of 
commerce. 

I return you many thanks for Boswell's Tour. I read it to Mrs. 
Unwin after supper, and we find it amusing. There is much trash 
in it, as there must always be in every narrative that relates in- 
discriminately all that passed. But now and then the Doctor 
speaks like an oracle, and that makes amends for all. Sir John 
v/as a coxcomb, and Boswell is not less a coxcomb, though of an- 
other kind. I fancy Johnson made coxcombs of all his fi-iends, 
and they, in return, made him a coxcomb ; for, with reverence 
be it spoken, such he certainly was, and, flattered as he was, he 
was sure to be so. 

Thanks for your invitation to London, but unless London can 
come to me, I fear we shall never meet. I Avas sure that you 
would love my friend when you should once be well acquainted 
vith him ; and equally sure that he would take kindly to you. 

!Now for Homer. ^^". C, 



LETTER CXn. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
Ajiico meg, The Lodge, Ju7ie 20, 1789, 

I am truly sorry that it must be so long 
before we can have an opportunity to meet. My cousin, in her 
last letter but one, inspired me with other expectations, expressing 
a purpose, if the matter could be so contrived, of bringing you 
Svith her. I was willing to believe that you had consulted together 
on the subject, and found it feasible. A month was formerly a 
trifle in my account, but at my present age I give it all its im- 
portance, and grudge that so many months should yet pass in 



LIFE OF COWPER. 189 

Vrhich I have not even a glimpse of those I love; and of whom, the 
course of nature considered, I must ere long take leave for ever. 
But I shall live till August. 

Many thanks for the cuckow, which arrived perfectly safe, 
and goes well, to the amusement and amazement of all who hear 
it. Hannah lies awake to hear it ; and I am not sure that we have 
not others in the house that admire his music as much as she. 

Having read both Hawkins and Boswell, I now think myself 
almost as much a master of Johnson's character as if I had known 
him personally ; and cannot but regret, that our bards of other 
times found no such biographers as these. They have both been 
ridiculed, and the wits have liad their laugh ; but such an history 
of Milton or Shakspeare as tliey have given of Johnson — Oh, 
jhow desirable ! W. C. 



LETTER CXIII. 
To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. 

July IS, 1789. 
Many thanks, my dear Madam, for your 
extract from George's letter! I retain but little Italia.n ; yet that 
little was so forcibly mustered, by the consciousness that I Avas 
myself the subject, that I presently became master of it. I have 
always said that George is a poet, and I am never in his company 
but I discover proofs of it; and the delicate address by which he 
has managed his complimentary mention of me, convinces me of 
it still more than ever. Here are a thousand poets of us who have 
impudence enough to write for the public ; but amongst the modest 
men, who are by diffidence restrained from such an cnterprize, are 
those who would eclipse us all. I wish that George would make the 
experiment: I would bind on his laurels with my own hand. 

Your gardener has gone after his wife ; but having neglected to 
take his lyi'e, alias fiddle, with him, has not yet brought home his 
Eurydice. Your clock in the hall has stopped ; and, strange to 
tell, it stopped at sight of the watch-maker ! For he only looked 
at it, and it has been motionless ever since. Mr. Gregson is gone, 
and the Hall is a desolation. Pray dont think any place pleasant 
that you may find in your rambles, that we may see you the sooner. 
Your aviaiy is all in good health. I pass it every day, and often 
inquire at the lattice ; the inhabitants of it send their duty, and 
wish for your return. I took notice of tlic inscription on your 
seal, and had we an artist here capable of furnishing me with an- 
other, you should read on mine, " Encore une lettrc." 

Adieu. W. C. 



130 LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER CXIV. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquii-e. 

The Lodge^ July 23, 1781>. 
You do well, my dear Sir, to improve 
your opportunity : to speak in the rural phrase, this is your sow- 
ing time, and the sheaves you look for can never be yours unless 
you make that use of it. The colour of our whole life is gene- 
rally such as the three or four first years, in which we are our 
own masters, make it. Then it is that we may be said to shape 
our own destiny, and to treasure up for ourselves a series of future 
successes or disappointments. Had I employed my time as wisely 
as you, in a situation very similar to yours, I had never been a 
poet perhaps, but I might by this time have acquired a character 
of more impoi'tance in society, and a situation in which my friends 
would have been better pleased to see me. But three years mis- 
spent in an attorney's office, were almost of course followed by 
several more equally mis-spent in the temple ; and the conse- 
quence has been, as the Italian epitaph says, " Sto qui." The 
only use I can make of myself now, at least the best, is to serve 
in terrorem to others, when occasion may happen to offer, that 
they may escape (so far as my admonitions can have any weight 
with them) my folly and my fate. When you feel yourself tempted 
to relax a little of the strictness of your present discipline, and 
to indulge in amusement incompatible with your future interests, 
think on your friend at Weston. 

Having said this, I shall next, with my whole heart, invite you 
hither, and assure you that I look forward to approaching August 
with great pleasure ; because it pi'omises me your company. After 
a little time (which we shall wish longer) spent with, us, you will 
return invigorated to your studies, and pursue them Avith the more 
advantage. In the mean time you have lost little, in point of sea- 
son, by being confined to London. Incessant rains, and meadows 
nnder water, have given to the summer the air of winter, and the 
country has been deprived of half its beauties. 

It is time to tell you that we are all well, and often make you 
our subject. This is the third meeting that my cousin and we have 
had in this country; and a great instance of good fortune I account 
it, in such a v/orld as this, to have expected such a pleasure thrice 
without being once disappointed. Add to this wonder as soon as 
you can, by making j^ourself of the party. 

W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. ;^1 

LETTER CXV. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, August 8, 1789, 
Mv DEAR Friend, 

Come when you will, or when you can, 
you cannot come at a wrong time ; but we shall expect you on the 
day mentioned. 

If you have any book that you think will make pleasant even- 
ing reading, bring it with you. I now read Mrs. Piozzi's Travels 
to the ladies after supper, and shall probably have finished them 
before we sliall have the pleasure of seeing you. It is the fashion, 
I understand, to condemn them. But we, who make books our- 
selves, are more merciful to book-makers. I would that every 
fastidious judge of authors were himself obliged to write: there 
goes more to the composition of a volume than many critics ima- 
gine. I have often wondered that the same poet who wrote the 
Dunciad should have written these lines — 

" The mercy I to others show, 
" That mercy show to me." 

Alas ! for Pope, if the mercy he showed to others was the mea- 
sure of the mercy he rec ived ! He was the less pardonable too, 
because experienced in all the difficulties of composition. 

I scratch this between dinner and tea ; a time when I cannot 
write much without disordering my noddle, and bringing a flush 
into my face. You will excuse me, therefore, if, through respect 
for the two important considerations of health and beauty, I con- 
clude myself 

Ever yours, W. C. 

LETTER CXVI. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, Sept. 2^, 1789. 
My dear Friend, 

You left us exactly at the wrong time. 
Had you staid till now, you would have had the pleasure of hear- 
ing even my cousin say, " I am cold;" and the still greater plea- 
sure of being warm yourself; for I have had a fire in the study 
ever since you went. It is the fault of our summei^ that they are 
hardly ever warm or cold enough. Were they warmer we should 
not want a fire, and were they colder we should have one. 



i92 LIFE OF COVVPER. 

I have twice seen and conversed with Mr. J . He is witty, 

intelligent, and agreeable beyond the common measure of men 
wlio are so. But it is the constant effect of a spirit of party to make 
tliose hateful to each other who are truly amiable in themselves. 

Beau sends his love ; he was melancholy the whole day after 
your departure. W. C« 



LETTER CXVIL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, Sefit. 11, 1788, 
My dear Friend, 

The hamper is come, and come safe ; 
and the contents I can affirm, on my own knowledge, are excel- 
lent. It chanced that another hamper and a box came by the 
same conveyance, all vi^hich I unpacked and expounded in the hall ; 
my cousin sitting mean time on the stairs, spectatress of the busi- 
ness. We diverted ourselves with imagining the manner in which 
Homer would have described the scene. Detailed in his circum- 
stantial way, it would have furnished materials for a paragraph of 
considerable length in an Odyssev. 

The straw-stufF'd hamper with his rutliless steel 
He open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords 
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came 
The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat, 
Or oats, or barley ; next a bottle green 
Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill'd - 
Drop after drop odorous, by the art 
Of the fair mother of his friend — the Rose. 

And so on, 
1 should rejoice to be the hero of such a tale in the hands of Homer, 
You will remember, I trust, that when the state of your health 
or spirits calls for rural walks and fresh air, you have always a re- 
treat at Weston. 

We are all well, all love you, down to the very dog ; and shall 
be glad to hear that you have exchanged languor for alacrity, and 
the debility that you mention, for indefatigable vigour. 

Mr. Throckmorton has made me a handsome present : Villois- 
son's edition of the Iliad, elegantly bound by Edwards. If I live 
long enough, by the contributions of my friends, I shall once more 
be posse»ied of a library. W. C, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 193 

LETTER CXVIII. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Dec, 18, 1789. 
My dear Friend, 

The present appears to me a wonderful 
period in the history of mankind. That nations so long contentedly 
slaves should, on a sudden, become enamoured of liberty, and un- 
derstand, as suddenly, their own natural right to it, feeling them- 
selves, at the same time, inspired with resolution to assert it, seems 
difficult to account for from natural causes. With respect to the 
final issue of all this, I can only say, that if, having discovered the 
value of liberty, they should next discover the value of peace, and, 
lastly, the value of the word of God, they will be happier than 
they ever were since the rebellion of the first pair, and as happy 
as it is possible they should be in the present life. 

Most sincerely yours, W. C. 

LETTER CXLX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodffe, Jan. 3, 1790. 
My dEar Sir, 

I have been long silent, but you have had 
the charity, I hope and believe, not to ascribe my silence to a 
wrong cause. The truth is, I have been too busy to write to any 
body, having been obliged to give my early mornings to the revi- 
sal and correction of a little volume of Hymns for Children, writ- 
ten bv, I know not whom. This task I finished but yesterday, and 
while it was in hand, wrote onl}- to my cousin, and to her rarely. 
From her, however, I knew that you would hear of my Avell-be- 
ing, which made me less anxious about my debts to you than I 
could have been otherwise. 

I am almost the only person at W^eston, known to you, who have 
enjoyed tolerable health this winter. In your next letter give us 
some account of your own state of health, for I have had my anxi- 
eties about you. The winter has been mild ; but our winters are, 
in general, such, that when a friend leaA cs us in tlie beginning of 
that season, I always feel in my heai't a fierha/is^ importing that 
we have possibly met for the last time, and that the robins may 
whistle on tlie grave of one of us before the return of summer. 

I am still thrumming Homer's lyre ; that is to say, I am still em- 
ployed in my last revisal ; and to give you some idea of the in- 
tenseness of my toils, I will inform you that it cost me all tlia 

VOL. I. c c 



194 LIFE OF COWPER. 

morning yesterday, and all the evening, to translate a single simile 
to my mind. The transitions from one member of the subject to 
another, though easy and natural in the Greek, turn out often so 
intolerably aukward in an English version, that almost endless la- 
bour, and no little address, are requisite to give them grace and 
elegance. I forget if I told you that your German Clavis has been 
of considerable use to me. I am indebted to it for a right under- 
standing of the manner in which Achilles prepared pork, mutton, 
and goat's flesh for the entertainment of his friends, in the night 
when they came deputed by Agamemnon to negcciate a reconcili- 
ation : a passage of which nobody in the world is perfectly mas- 
ter, myself only and Schaufelbergerus excepted, nor ever was, ex- 
cept when Greek was a live language. 

I do not know whether my cousin has told you or not, how I 
brag in my letters to her concerning my translation ; perhaps her 
modesty feels more for me than mine fot* myself, and she would 
blush to let even you know the degree of my self-conceit on that 
subject, I will tell you, however, expressing myself as decently 
as vanity will permit, that it has undergone such a change for the 
better in this revisal, that I have much warmer hopes of success 
than formerly. W. C. 

LETTER CXX. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge., Jan. 23, 1790. 
My dear Co2. 

I had a letter yesterday from the wild 
boy Johnson, for whom I have conceived a great affection. It was 
just such a letter as I like, of the true helter-skelter kind ; and 
though he writes a remarkable good hand, scribbled with such ra- 
pidity, that it was barely legible. He gave me a droll account of 
the adventures of Lord Howard's note, and of his own in pursuit 
of it. The poem he brought me came as from Lord Howard, 
with liis Loi'dship's request that I would revise it. It is in the form ' 
of a pastoral, and is entitled, " Tale of the Lute, or, the Beauties 
of Audlexj End." I read it attentively; was much pleased with 
part of it, and part of it I equally disliked. I told him so, and in 
such terms as one naturally uses when there seems to be no occasion 
to qualify, or to alleviate censure. I observed him afterwards 
somewhat more thoughtful and silent, but occasionally as pleasant 
as usual ; and in Kilwick-wood, where we walked the next day, 
the truth came out, that he was himself the author, and that Lord 
Howard, not approving it altogether, and several friends of his 



LIFE OF COWPER. 195 

ONvn age, to whom he had shown it, differing from his Lordship io 
opinion, and being highly pleased with it, he had come at last to a 
resolution to abide by my judgment ; a measure to which Lord 
Howard by all means advised him. He accordingly brought it, and 
will bring it again in the summer, when we shall lay our heads 
together, and try to mend it. 

I have lately had a letter also from Mrs. King, to whom, indeed, 
I had written to inquire whether she were living or dead ; she tells 
me, the critics expect from my Homer eAxry thing in some parts, 
and that, in others, I shall fall short. These are the Cambridge 
critics ; and she has her intelligence from the botanical professor, 
Martj-n. That gentleman, in reply, answers them, that I shall 
fall short in nothing, but shall disappoint them all. It shall be my 
endeavour to do so, and I am not without hope of succeeding. 

W. C. 



LETTER CXXL 

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge, Feb. 2, ir90. 
Mt dear Friend, 

Should HejTie's Homer appear before 
mine, which I hope is not probable, and should he adopt in it the 
opinion of Bentley, that the whole last Odyssey is spurious, I will 
dare to contradict both him and the Doctor. I am only in part of 
Bentley 's mind (if indeed his mind were such) in this matter, and, 
giant as he was in learning, and eagle-eyed in criticism, am per- 
suaded, convinced, and sure, (can I be more positive ?) that, ex- 
cept from the moment when the Ithacans begin to meditate an 
attack on the cottage of Laertes, and thence to the end, that book 
is the work of Homer. From the moment aforesaid I yield the 
point, or rather have never, since I had any skill in Homer, felt 
myself at all inclined to dispute it. But I beUeve perfectly, at the 
same time, that. Homer himself alone excepted, the Greek poet 
never existed who could have written the speeches made by the 
shade of Agamemnon; in which there is more insight into the hu- 
man heart discovered than I ever saw in any other work, unless 
in Shakspeare's. I am equally disposed to fight for the whole pas- 
sage that describes Laertes, and the interview between him and 
Ulysses. Let Bentley grant these to Homer, and I will shake 
hands with him as to all the rest. The battle with which the book 
concludes is, I think, a paltry battle, and there is a huddle in the 
management of it, altogether unworthy of my favourite, and the 
favourite of all ages. 



• 



196 LIFE OF COWPER. 

If you should happen to fall into company with Dr. Wartou 
again, you will not, I dare say, forget to make him my respect? 
ful compliments, and to assure him that I felt myself not a little 
flattered by the favourable mention he was pleased to make of me 
and my labours. The poet who pleases a man like him has no- 
thing left to wish for. I am glad that you were pleased Avith my 
young cousin Johnson ; he is a boy, and bashful, but has great me- 
rit in respect both of character and intellect. So far at least as in 
a week's knowledge of him I could possibly learn, he is very ami- 
able and very sensible, and inspired me with a warm wish to know 
Jiim better. W. C» 



LETTER CXXII. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 9, 1790, 
I have sent you lately scraps instead of 
letters, having had occasion to answer immediately on the receipt, 
which always happens when I am deep in Homer, 

I knew, when I recommended Johnson to you, that you would find 
some way to serve him, and so it has happened ; for, notwithstand- 
ing your own apprehensions to the contrary, you have already pro- 
cured him a chaplainship. This is pretty well, considering that it 
is an early day, and that you have but just begun to know that there 
is such a man under heaven. I had rather myself be patronized 
by a person of small interest, with a heart like yours, than by the 
Chancellor himself, if he did not care a farthing for me. 

If I did not desire you to make my acknowledgments to Anony- 
mous, as I believe I did not, it was because I am not aware that I 
am warranted to do so. But the omission is of less consequence, 
because, whoever he i.-., though he has no objection to doing the 
kindest things, he seems to have an aversion to the thanks they 
merit. 

You must know, that two Odes, composed by Horace, have lately 
been discovered at Rome: I wanted them transcribed into the 
blank leaves of a little Horace of mine, and Mrs. Throckmorton 
performed that service for me : in a blank leaf, therefoi-e, of the 
Baroe book, T wrote the following. 

w. c. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 19T 

To Mrs. THROCKMORTON, 

On her Beautiful Tramcrifit of Horace's Ode., Ad librum suuni. 

Maria, could Horace have guess'd 

What honours awaited his Ode, 
To his own little volume address'd. 

The honour which you have bestow'd; 
Who have trac'd it in characters here, 

So elegant, CA^en, and neat ; 
He had laugh 'd at the critical sneer 

Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 

And sneer, if you please, he had said. 

Hereafter a nymph shall arise. 
Who shall give me, when you are all dead, 

The glory your malice denies ; 
Shall dignity give to my lay. 

Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
And even a poet shall say. 

Nothing ever was written so well. 

LETTER CXXm. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Feb. 26, 1790. 
You have set my heart at ease, my cousin, 
iso far as you were yourself the object of its anxieties. What other 
troubles it feels can be cured by God alone. But you are never 
silent a week longer than usual, without giving an opportunity to 
my imagination (ever fruitful in flowers of a sable hue) to teaze 
me with tliem day and night. London is, indeed, a pestilent place, 
as you caU it, and I would, with all my heart, that thou hadst less 
to do with it: were you under the same roof with me, I should 
know you to be safe, and should never distress you with melan- 
choly letters. 

I feel myself well enough inclined to the measure you propose, 
and will show to your new acquaintance, with all my heart, a sample 
of my translation. But it shall not be, if you please, taken from 
the Odyssey. It is a poem of a gentler character than the Iliad, 
and as I propose to carry her by a cou/i de mam, I shall employ 
Achilles, Agamemnon, and the two armies of Greece and Ti-oy, 
\f\ my service, I v/iil accordingly scud you, in the box that I re- 



19S LIFE OF COWPER. 

Ceived from you last night, the two first books of the Hiad, for that 
lady's perusal : to those I have given a third revisal ; for them^ 
therefore, I will be answerable, and am not afraid to stake the 
credit of my work upon the7n with her, or with any living wight, 
especially one who understands the original. I do not mean that 
even they are finished; for I shall examine and cross-examine 
them yet again, and so you may tell her ; but I know that they will 
not disgrace me ; whereas it is so long since I have looked at tlie 
Odyssfey, tliat I know nothing at all about it. They shall set sail 
from Olney on Monday morning in the Diligence, and will reach 
you, I hope, in the evening. As soon as she is done with them, I 
shall be glad to have them again ; for the time draws near when I 
shall want to give them the last touch. 

I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's kindness in giving me the 
Only pictui'e of my own mother that is to be found, I suppose, in all 
the world. I had rather possess it than the richest jewel in the 
British crown, for I loved her with an affection that her death, fifty- 
tv/o years since, has not in the least abated. I remember her too, 
young as I was, when she died, well enough to know that it is a 
very ejiact resemblance of her, and, as such, it is to me invaluable. 
£very body loved her, and, with an amiable character so impres- 
sed on all her features, every body was sure to do so. 

I have a very affectionate, and a very clever letter from John- 
son, who promises me the transcript of the books entrusted to him 
\n a few days. I have a gl'eat love for that young man ; he has 
Some drops of the same stream in his veins that once animated the 
original of that dear picture. W. C. 

LETTER CXXIV. 
To Mrs. BODHAM. 

Weston, Feb. "2,7, 1790» 

My DEARE5T RoSE, 

Whom I thought withered, and fallen 
fi-om the stalk, but whom I find still alive : nothing could give me 
greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from yourself. I 
loved you dearly when you were a child, and love you not a jot the 
less for having ceased to be so* Every creature that bears any 
affinity to my own mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter of 
her brother, are but one remove distant from her : I love you, 
therefore, and love you much, both for her sake and for your 
ownv The world could not have furnished you with a present so 
acceptable to me as the picture which you have so kindly sent me« 
J recei^'^ed it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation 



LIFE OF COWPER. 199 

of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt 
had the dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed 
it, and hung it where it is tlie last object that I see at night, and, 
of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. She 
died when I had completed my sixth year, yet I remember her 
well, and am an ocular witness of the great fidelity of the copy. 
I remember, too, a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I 
received from her, and which have endeared her memory to me 
beyond expression. There is in me, I believe, more of tlie Donne 
than of the Cowper, and though I love all of both names, and have 
a thousand reasons to love those of my own name, yet I feel the 
bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side. I was thought, 
in the days of my childhood, much to resemble my mother ; and, in 
my natural temper, of which, at the age of fifty-eight, I must be 
supposed a competent judge, can trace both her and my late uncle, 
your father. Somewhat of his irritability, and a little, I would 
hope, both of his and of her — — , I know not what to call it, 
without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention; but, 
speaking to you, I will even speak out, and say good-nature. Add 
to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, 
the Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a 
Donne at all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love 
you all. 

I account it a happy event that brought the dear boy, your 
nephew, to my knowledge, and that, breaking through all the re- 
straints which his natural bashfu'.ness imposed on him, he deter- 
mined to find me out. He is amiable to a degree that I have sel- 
dom seen, and I often long with impatience to see him again. 

My dearest cousin, what shall I say in answer to your affec- 
tionate invitation ? I must say this, I cannot come now, nor soon, 
and I wish, with all my heart, I could. But I will tell you what 
may be done, perhaps, and it will answer to us just as well: you 
and Mr. Bodham can come to Weston, can you not ? The sum- 
mer is at hand ; .there are roads and wheels to bring you, and you 
are neither of j^ou translating Homer. I am crazed that I cannot 
ask you altogether, for want of house-room, but for Mr. Bodliam 
and yourself we have good room, and equally good for any third 
in the shape of a Donne, whether named Hewitt, Bodham, Balls, 
or Johnson, or by whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has 
particular claims upon me ; she was my play-fellow at Berkham- 
stead, and has a share in my warmest affections. Pray tell her so. 
Neither do I at all forget my cousin Harriet. She and I have been 
many a time merry at Catfield, and have made the parsonage ring 
with laughter. Give my love to her. Assure yourself, my dearest, 



200 LIFE OF COWPER. 

cousin, that I shall receive you as if you were my sister, and Mrsv 
IJnwin is, for my sake, prepared to do the same. When she has 
seen you, she will love you for your own. 

I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kindness to my Ho- 
mer, and with my love to you all, and with Mrs. Unwin's kind 
respects, am, my dear, dear Rose, ever yours, W. C. 

P. S. I mourn the death of your poor brother Castres, whom I 
should have seen had he lived, and should have seen with the 
greatest pleasure. He was an amiable boy, and I was very fond 
of him. 

Sdll another P. S, — I find, on consulting Mrs. Unwin, tliat I 
have under-rated our capabilities, and that we have not only room 
for you and Mr. Bodham, but for two of your sex, and even for 
your nephew into the bargain. We shall be happy to have it all so 
occupied. 

Your nephew tells me that his sister, in the qualities of the 
mind, resembles you ; that is enough to make her dear to me, and 
I beg you will assure her that she is so. Let it not be long before 
I hear from you. 



LETTER CXXV. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire, 

Weston^ Feb. 28, 1790.. 
My dear Cousin John, 

I have much wished to hear from you, 
and though you are welcome to wiite to Mrs. Unwin as often as^ 
you please, I wish myself to be numbered among your corres- 
pondents. 

I shall find time to answer you, doubt it not ! Be as busy as we 
may, we can alwa)'s find time to do what is agreeable to us. By 
the way, had you a letter from Mrs. Unwin? I am witness that 
she addressed one to you before you went into Norfolk ; but your 
mathematico-poetical head forgot to acknowledge the receipt of it. 

I was never more pleased in my life than to learn, and to learn 
from herself, that my dearest Rose* is still alive. Had she not 
engaged me to love her by the sweetness of her character when 
a child, she would have done it eftectually now, by making me the 
most acceptable present in the world — my own dear mother's pic- 
ture. I am, perhapsj^the only person living who remembers her, 
but I remember her well, and can attest, on my own knowledge,, 
the trutli of the resemblance. Amiable and elegant as the coun- 

* Mrs, Aivii Eodham. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 301 

tcnance is, such exactly was liev own : she was one of the tendcrest 
parents, and so just a copy of her is, therefore, to me invaluable. 
I wrote yesterday to my Rose, to tell her all this, and to thank 
her for her kindness in sending it ; neither do I forget your kind- 
ness who intimated to her that I should be happy to possess it. 

She invites me into Norfolk ; but, alas ! she might as well invite 
the house in which I dwell ; for, all other considerations and im- 
pediments apart, how is it possible that a translator of Homer 
should lumber to such a distance? But though I cannot comply 
with her kind invitation, I have made myself the best amends in 
my power, by inviting her, and all the family of Donnes, to \^'es- 
ton. Perhaps we could not accommodate them all at once, but 
in succession we could ; and can at any time find room for five, 
three of them being females, and one a married one. You are a 
mathematician; tell me, then, how five persons can be lodged in 
three beds, two males and three females ; and I shall have good 
hope that you will proceed a senior optime. It would make me 
happy to see our house so furnished. As to yourself, whom I know 
to be a subscalarian^ or a man that sleeps under the stairs, I 
should have no objection at all, neither could you possibly have 
anv yourself, to the garret, as a place in which you might be dis- 
posed of with gi-eat felicity of accommodation. 

I thank you much for your services in the transcribing way, and 
would by no means have you despair of an opportunity to serve 
me in the same way yet again. Write to me soon, and tell mc 
when I shall see you. 

I have not said the half that I have to say ; but breakfast is at 
hand, which always terminates my epistles. 

What have you done with your poem? The trimming that it 
procured you here has not, I hope, pat you out of conceit with it 
entirely ; you are more than equal to the alteration that it needs. 
Onlv remember, that in writing, perspicuity is always more than 
half the battle. The want of it is the ruin of more than half the 
poetry that is published. A meaning that does not stare you in 
the face is as bad as no meaning, because nobody will take the 
pains to poke for it. So now adieu for the pi-esent. Beware of 
killing yourself with problems, for if you do you will never live 
to be another Sir Isaac. 

Mrs. Unwin's affectionate remembrances . attend you ; Lady 
Hesketh is much disposed to love you ; perhaps most who know 
you have some little tendency the same way. " 

W. C. 



VOL. I. D tl 



mm LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER CXXVL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 8, 1750^ 
Mt dearest Cousin, 

I thank thee much, and oft, for nego- 
dating so well this poetical concern with Mrs. , and for tend- 
ing me her opinion in her own hand. I should be unreasontible 
indeed, not to be highly gratified by it ; and I like it the better 
for being modestly expressed. It is, as you know, and it shall 
be some months longer, my daily business to polish and improve 
what is done, that, when the whole shall appear, she may find 
her expectations answered. I am glad also that thou did t send 
her the sixteenth Odyssey, though, as I said before, I know nrt at 
all, at present, whereof it is made ; but I am sure that thou wculdst 
not have sent it, hadst thou not conceived a good op-nion of it thy- 
self, and thought that it would do me credit. It was very kind 
in thee to sacrifice to this Minerva on my account.. 

For my sentiments on the subject of the test act, I cannot do 
better than refer thee to my poem, entitled and called " Expostu- 
lation." I have there expressed myself not much in its favour, 
considering it in a religious view; and in a political one I like it 
not a jot the better. I am neither tory nor high churchman, but 
an old whig, as my father was before me, and an enemy, conse- 
quently, to all tyrannical impositions,, 

Mrs. Unwin bids me return thee many thanks for thy inquiries 
so kindly made concerning her health. She is a little better than, 
of late, but has been ill continually ever since last November. 
Every th'ng that could try patience and submission she has had, 
and her submission and patience have answered in the trial> 
though mine, on her account, have often failed sadly. 

I have a letter from Johnson, who tells me that he has sent his 
transcript to you, begging, at the same time, more copy. Let 
him have it by all means ; he is an industrious youth, and I love 
him dearly. I told him that you are disposed to love him a little. 
A new poem is born on the receipt of my mother's picture. Thou 
Shalt have it. W. C. 



LETTER CXXVII. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge, March 11, 1790. 

I was glad to hear from you, for a line 

from you gives me always much pleasure, but was not much glad» 



LIFE OF COWPER. 203 

dened by the contents of your letter. The state of your health, 
%vhich I have learned more accurately, perhaps, from my cousin, 
except in this last instance, than from yourself, has rather alarmed 
me; and even she has collected her information upon that subject 
more from your looks than from your own acknowledgments. To 
complain much, and often, of our indispositions, does not always 
insure the pity of the hearer, perhaps sometimes forfeits ii ; but 
to dissemble them altogether, or, at least, to suppress the worst, is 
attended, ultimately, with an inconvenience gi'eater still; the se- 
cret will out at last, and our friends, unprepared to receive it, arc" 
doubly distressed about us. In saying this I squint a little at Mrs. 
Unwin, who will read it: it is with her, as with you, the only 
subject on which she practises any dissimulation at all: the con- 
sequence is, that when she is much indisposed I never believe 
myself in possession of the whole truth, live in constant expecta- 
tion of hearing something worse, and, at the long run, am seldom 
disappointed. It seems, therefore, as on all other occasions, so 
even in this, the better course, on the whole, to appear what we 
are, not to lay the fears of our friends asleep by cheerful looks 
•which do not properly belong to us, or by letters written as if we 
■were well, when, in fact, we are very much otherwise. On con- 
dition, however, that you act differently toward me for the future, 
I will pardon the past, and she may gather, from my clemency 
shown to you, some hopes, on the same conditions, of similar cle- 
inency to herself. W. C. 



LETTER CXXVm. 
To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. 

The Lodge, March 21, 1790. 
My dearest Madam, 

I shall only observe, on the subject of 
your absence, that you have stretched it since you went, and have 
made it a week longer. Weston is sadly unked without you ; and 
here are two of us who will be heartily glad to see you again. I 
believe you are happier at home than any where, which is a com- 
fortable belief to your neighbours, because it affords assurance 
that, since you are neither likely to I'amble for pleasure, nor to 
meet with any avocations of business, while Weston shall conti- 
nue to be your home, it will not often want ycu. 

The two first books of my Iliad have been submitted to the in- 
spection and scrutiny of a great critic of your sex, at the instance 
of my cousin, as j^ou may suppose. The lady is mistress of more 
tongues than a few, (it is to be hoped she is single) and particu- 



204 LIFE OF COWPER. 

larly she is mistress of the Greek. She returned them with ex. 
pressioiis that, if any thing could make a poet prouder than all 
poets naturally are, would have made me so. I tell you this be- 
cause I know that you all interest yourselves in the success of the 
said Iliad. 

My periwig is arrived, and is the very perfection of all peri- 
wigs, having only one fault, which is, that my head will only go 
into the first half of it, the other half, or the upper part of it, 
continuing still unoccupied. My artist in this way at Olney has, 
however, undertaken to make the whole of it tenantable ; and 
tlien I shall be twenty years younger than you have ever seen 
me. 

I heard of your bii*th-day very early in the morning : the news 
came from the steeple. W. C. 



LETTER CXXIX. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 22, 1790, 

, I rejoice, my dearest cousin, that my MSS. 
liave roamed the earth so successfiilly, and have met with no dis- 
aster. The single book excepted that went to the bottom of the 
Thames, and rose again, they have been fortunate without excep- 
tion. I am not superstitious, but have, nevertheless, as good a 
right to believe that adventure an omen, and a favourable one, as 
Swift had to interpret as he did the loss of a fine fish, which he 
had no sooner laid on the bank than it flounced into the water 
again. This, he tells us himself, he always considered as a type 
of his future disappointments ; and why may I not as Avell consider 
the marvellous recovery of my lost book from the bottom of the 
Thames as typical of its future prosperity ? To say the truth, I 
have no fears now about the success of my translation, though in 
time past I have had many. I knew there was a style somewhere, 
could I but find it, in which Homer ought to be rendered, and 
which alone would suit him. Long time I blundered about it, 
ere I could attain to any decided judgment on the matter. At 
first I was betrayed, by a desire of accommodating my language to 
the simplicity of his, into much of the quaintness that belonged to 
our writers of the fifteenth centui-y. In the course of many re- 
visals I have delivered myself from this evil, I believe, entirely ; 
but I have done it slovv'ly, and as a man separates himself frcm his 
mistress when he is going to marry. I had so strong a predilection 
in favour of this style at first, that I was crazed to find that otliers 
were not so much enamoured with it as myself. At evo-y p;is.snge 



LIFE OF COWPER. 305 

of that sort which I obliterated I gi-oaned bitterly, and said to my- 
self, I am spoiling my work to please those who have no taste for 
the simple graces of antiquity. But in measure, as I adopted a 
more modern phraseology, I became a convert to their opinion; 
and in the last revisal, which I am now making, am not sensible 
of having spared a single expression of the obsolete kind. I see 
my work so much improved by this alteration, that I am filled with 
wonder at my own backwai-dness to assent to the necessity of it ; 
and tlie more, when I consider that Milton, with whose manner 
I account myself intimately acquainted, is never quaint, never 
twangs through the nose, but is every where grand and elegant, 
without resorting to musty antiquity for his beauties. On the con- 
trary, he took a long stride forward, left tlie language of his own 
day far behind him, and anticipated the expressions of a century 
yet to come. 

I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt of the event, but I 
will give thee a shilling if thou wilt tell me what I shall say in my 
preface. It is an affair of much delicacy, and I have as many opi- 
nions about it as there are whims in a weather-cock. 

Send my MSS. and thine when thou wilt. In a day or two I 
shall enter on the last Iliad. When I have finished it I shall give 
the Odyssey one more reading, and shall, therefore, shortly have 
occasion for the copy in thy possession ; but you see that there is no 
need to hurr}'. 

I leaA^e the little space for Mrs. Unwin's use, who means, I be- 
lieve, to occupy it, and am evermore thine most truly. 

W. C. 

Postscript in the hand of Mrs. Unwin. 

You cannot imagine how much your ladyship would oblige your 
unworthy servant, if you would be so good to let me know in what 
point I differ from you. All that at present I can say is, that I will 
i-eadily sacrifice my own opinion, unless I can give you a substan- 
tial reason for adhering to it. 



LETTER CXXX.. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, March 23, irSO. 
Your MSS. arrived safe in New Norfolk 
Street, and lam much obliged to you forvour labours. Were you 
now at Weston I could furnish you with employment for some 
weeks, and shall perhaps be equally able to do it in summer, fori 
have lost my liest amanuensis in this place, Mr. George Thi'ock- 
morton, who is gone to Bath. 



206 LIFE OF COWPER. 

You are a man to be envied, who have never read the Odyssey, 
tvhich is one of the most amusing story-books in the world. There 
is also much of the finest poetry in the world to be found in it, 
notwithstanding all that Longinus has insinuated to the contrary. 
His comparison of the Diad and Odyssey to the meridian, and to 
the declining sun, is pretty, but, I am persuaded, not just. The 
prettiness of it seduced him; he was otherwise too judicious a 
reader of Homer to have made it. I can find in the latter no symp- 
toms of impaired ability ; none of the effects of age : on the con- 
trary, it seems to me a certainty, that Homer, had he written the 
Odyssey in his youth, could not have written it better ; and if the 
Iliad in his old age, that he would have written it just as well. A 
critic would tell me, that instead of written I should have said coin" 
posed. Very likely — ^but I am not writing to one of that snarling 
generation. 

My boy, I long to see thee again. It has happened some way 
or other, that Mrs. Unwin and I have conceived a great affection 
for thee. That I should, is the less to be wondered at, because 
thou art a shred of ray own mother; neither is the wonder great, 
that she should fall into the same pi-edicaraent ; for she loves every 
thing that I love. You will observe, that your own personal right 
to lie beloved makes no part of the consideration. There is no- 
thing that I touch with so much tenderness as the vanity of a young 
man ; because I know how extremely susceptible he is of impres- 
sions that might hurt him in that particular part of his composition* 
If you should ever prove a coxcomb, from which character you 
stand just now at a greater distance than any young man I know, it 
shall never be said that I have made you one; no, you will gain 
nothing by me but the honour of being much valued by a poor poet, 
who can do you no good while he lives, and has nothing to leave 
you wiien he dies. If you can be contented to be dear to me on 
tiiese conditions, so you shall ; but other terms, more advantageous 
than these, or more inviting, none have I to propose. 

Farewell. Puzzle not j^ourself about a subject when you write 
to cither of us ; every thing is subject enough from those we love* 

W. C. 



LETTER CXXXL 

To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, AJiril 17, 1790. 

Your letter, that now lies before me, is 

almost tliree weeks old, and therefore of full age to receive an 

answer, which it shall have without delay, if the interval betweea 



LIFE OF COWPER. 207 

the present moment and that of breakfast shcuM prove sufficient 
for the purpose. 

Yours to Mrs. Unwin was received yesterday, for wliicli she 
will thank you m due time. I have also seen, and have now in 
my desk, your letter to Lady Hesketh ; she sent it thinking that 
it would divert me ; in which she was not mistaken. I shall tell 
her when I write to her next, that you iong to receive a line from 
her. Give yourself no trouble on the subject of the politic device 
)'ou saw good to recur to, when you presented me with your 
manusci'ipt ; it was an iimocent deception, at least it could harm 
nobody save yourself; an effect which it did not fail to produce: 
and since the punishment followed it so closely, by me at least it 
may very well be forgiven. You ask, how I can teil that you are 
not addicted to practices of the deceptive kind ? And certainly, if 
the little time that I have had to study you were alone to be con- 
sidered, the question would not be unreasonable j but, in general, si 
man who reaches my years, finds that 

" Long experience does attain 

*' To something like prophetic strain." 

I am very much of Lavater's opinion, and persuaded that faces 
are as legible as books ; only with these circumstances to recom- 
mend them to our perusal, that they are read in much less time, 
and are much less likely to deceive us. Yours gave me a favour- 
able impression of you the moment I beheld it ; and though I shall 
not tell you in particular what I saw in it, for reasons mentioned in. 
my last, I will add, that I have observed in you nothing since that 
has not confirmed the opinion I then formed in your favour. In 
fact, I cannot recollect that my skill in physiognomy has ever de- 
ceived me, and I should add more on this subject had I room. 

W^en you have shut up your mathematical books, you must 
give yourself to the study of Greek; not merely that you may be 
able to read Homer, and the other Greek Classics, with ease, but 
the Greek Testament and the Greek Fathers also. Thus qualified, 
and by the aid of your fiddle into the bargain, together with some 
portion of the grace of God (without which nothing can be done) 
to enable you to look well to your flock, when you shall get one, 
you will be well set up for a parson. In which character, if I 
live to see you in it, I shall expect and hope that you will make a 
very different figure from most of your fraternity. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



508 LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER CXXXIL 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Aiiril 19, 1790* 

Mr DEAREST COZ. 

I thank thee for my cousin Johnson's let- 
ter, which diverted me. I had one from him lately, in which he 
expressed an ardent desire of a line from you, and the delight he 
would feel on receiving it. I know not whether you will have tlic 
charity to satisfy his longings, but mention the matter, thinking it 
possible that you may. A letter from a lady to a youth immersed 
in mathematics must be singularly pleasant. 

I am finishing Homer backward, having begun at the last book, 
and designing to persevere in that crab-like fashion till I ar- 
rive at the first. This may remind you, perhaps, of a certain 
poet's prisoner in the bastiie (thank Heaven! in the bastile now 
no more) counting the nails in the door, for variety's sake, in all 
directions. I find so little to do in the last revisal, that I shall 
soon reach the Odyssey, and soon want those books of it which are 
in thy possession ; but the two first of the Liad, which are also in 
thy possession, much sooner: thou mayest, therefore, send them 
by the first fair opportunity. I am in high spirits on this subject, 
and think that I have at last licked the clumsy cub into a shape 
that will secure to it the favourable notice of the public. Let not 
— — retard me, and I shall hope to get it out next winter. 

I am glad that thou hast sent the General those verses on my 
mother's picture. They will amuse him ; only I hope that he will 
not miss my mother-in-law, and think that she ought to have made 
a third. On such an occasion it was not possible to mention her 
with any propriety. I i-ejoice at the General's recovery ; may it 
prove a perfect one. VV. C. 

LETTER CXXXin. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Ajiril 30, 1790. 
To my old friend. Dr. Madan, thou 
eouldst not have spoken better than thou didst. Tell him, I be- 
seech you, that I have not forgotten him ; tell him also, that to 
my heart and home he will be always welcome ; nor he only, but 
all that are his. His judgment of my translation gave me tlie 
highest satisfaction, because I know him to be a rare old Gre- 
cian. 

The GeReral's approbation of iny picture verses gave me alsa 



LIFE OF COWPER. 205 

inuch pleasure. I wrote them not without tears ; therefore I pre- 
sume it may be that they are felt by others. Should he offer me 
my father's picture, I shall gladly accept it. A melancholy plea- 
sure is better than none, nay, \erily, better than most. He had 
a sad task imposed on him ; but no man could acquit himself of 
such a one with niore discretion or with more tenderness. The 
death of the unfortunate young man rfeminded me of those lines 
in Lycidas : 

" It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 

" Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark} 

" That sunk so lov/ that saci-ed head of thine!" 

How beautiful! W. Ci 



LETTER CXXXIV. 
To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. 

The Lodge, May 10, 1790* 
My dear Mrs. Frog,* you have by this 
time, 1 presume, heard from the Doctor ; whom I desired to pre- 
sent to you our best affections, and to tell you that we are well. 
He sent an urchin (I do not mean a hedge-hog, commonly called 
an urchin in old times, but a boy, commonly so called at pi-esent), 
expecting that he would find you at Buckland's, whither he sup« 
posed you gone on Thursday. He sent him charged with diver* 
articles, and among others with letters, or at least with a letter; 
wliich I mention, that, if the boy should be lost, together with hia 
dispatches, past all possibility of recovery, you may yet know that 
the Doctor stands acquitted of not writing. That he is utterly 
lost (that is to say, the boy — for, the Doctor being the last ante- 
cedent, as the grammarians say, you might otherwise suppose that 
he was intended) is the more probable, because he was never four 
miles fi'om his home before, having onlj' travelled at the side of a 
plough-team ; and when the Doctor gave him his direction to Buck- 
land's, he asked, very naturally, if that place was in England. 
So, what has become of him, Heaven knows. 

I do not know that any ad\ entures have presented themselvess 
since your departure worth mentioning, except that the rabbit that 
infested your wilderness has been shot for devouring your carna- 
tions ; and that I myself have been in some danger of being de- 
voured, in like manner, by a great dog, viz. Pearson's. But 1 

* The sportive title gecerally bestowed by Cowper on his amiable friends the Tbrockwori 
toxis. 

VOL. I. se 



21» LIFE OF COWPER. 

tvrote him a letter on Friday, (I mean a letter to Pearson, not to 
his dog, which I mention to prevent mistakes — for the said last 
antecedent might occasion them in this place also) informing him, 
that miless he tied up his great mastiff in the day-time, I would 
send him a worse thing, commonly called and known by the name 
of an attorney. When I go forth to ramble in the fields, I do not 
sally, like Don Quixote, with a purpose of encountering monsters, 
if any such can be found ; but am a peaceable, poor gentleman, and 
a poet, who means nobody any harm, the fox-hunters and the two 
universities of this land excepted. 

I cannot learn from any creature whetlier the turnpike bill is 
alive or dead : so ignorant am I, and by such ignoramuses sur- 
rounded. But if I know little else, this at least I know, that I 
love you and Mr. Frog ; that I long for your return, and that I am, 
■with Mrs. Unwin's best affections, ever yours, W. C- 



LETTER CXXXV. 

To Lady HESKETH. 
My dearest Coz. The Lodge, May 28, 1790. 

I thank thee for the offer of thy best ser- 
vices on this occasion, but Heaven guard my brows from the wreath 
you mention, whatever wreath beside may hereafter adorn them ! 
It would be a leaden extinguisher, clapped on all the fire of my ge- 
nius, and I should never more produce a line worth reading. To 
speak seriously, it would m.ake me miserable ; and therefore I am 
sure that thou, of all my friends, wouldst least wish me to wear it. 
Adieu, e^•er thine — in Homer — hurry. W. C» 

LETTER CXXXVL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

June 3, l^QOv 
You will wonder when I tell you, that I, 
even I, am considered by people, who live at a great distance, as 
liaving interest and influence sufficient to procure a place at court 
for those who may happen to want one. I have, accordingly, been 
applied to within these few days, by a Welchman, with a wife and 
many children, to get him made Poet-laureat as fast as possible. 
If thou wouldst wish to make the world merry twice a year, thou 
canst not do better than procure the office for hmi. I will pro- 
mise thee, that he shall afford thee a hearty laugh in return every 
every birth-day, and every new-yeav. He is an honest man. 

Adieu. W. C. 



LIFE OF COWTER. Oil 

LETTER CXXXVII. 

To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, June 7, 1790. 
My dear John, 

You know my engagements, and are, con- 
sequently, able to account for my silence: I will not, therefore, 
waste time and paper in mentioning them, but will only say, that, 
added to those with which you are acquainted, I have had other 
hinderances, such as business, and a disorder of my spirits, to 
■which I have been all my life subject. At present I am, thank 
God, perfectly well, both in mind and body. Of you I am always 
mindful, whether I write or not, and very desirous to see you. You 
will remember, I hope, that you are under engagements to us, and 
as soon as your Norfolk friends can spare you, will fulfil them. 
Give us all the time you can, and all that they can spare to us. 

You never pleased me more than when you told me you had 
abandoned your mathematical pursuits. It grieved me to think 
that vou were wasting your time merely to gain a little Camljridge 
fame not worth your having. I cannot be contented that your re- 
no^vn should thrive no where but on the banks of the Cam. Con- 
ceive a nobler ambition, and never let your honour be circum- 
scribed by the paltry dimensions of an university. It is well that 
j-ou have already, as you observe, acquired sufficient information 
in that science to enable you to pass creditably such examinations 
as, I suppose, you must hereafter undergo. Keep what you have 
gotten, and be content. More is needless. 

You could not apply to a worse than I am to advise you con- 
cerning your studies. I was never a regular student myself; but 
lost the most valuable years of my life in an attorney's office, and 
in the Temple. I will not, therefore, give myself airs, and affect 
to know wliat I know not. The affair is of great importance to 
you, and you should be directed in it by a wiser than I. To speak, 
however, in very general terms on the subject, it seems to me that 
your chief concern is with history, natural philosophy, logic, and 
divinity. As to metaphysics, I know little about them, but the 
very little that I do know has not taught me to admire them. Life 
is too short to afford time even for serious trifles : pursue what ycu 
know to be attainable, make truth your object, andyour studies will 
make you a wise man. Let your divinity, if I may advise, be the 
divinity of the glorious reformation : I mean in contradistinction to 
Arminianism, and all the isms that were ever broached in this 
world of error and ignorance. 

The divinity of the reformation is called Calvinism, but injuri- 



315 LrFE OF COWPER. 

ously ; it has been that of the church of Christ in all ages ; it Is 
the divinity of St. Paul, and of St. Paul's master, who met him in 
his way to Damascus. 

I have written in great haste, that I might finish, if possible, be- 
fore breakfast. Adieu ; let us see you soon ; the sooner the better. 
Give my love to tl:»e silent lady, the Rose, and all my friends 
iroundyou. W. C. 



LETTER CXXXVIII. 
To SAIVIUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge^ June 8, 1790, 
My DEAR Friend, 

Among the many who love and esteem 
you, there is none who rejoices more in your felicity than myself: 
far from blaming, I commend you much for connecting yourself, 
young as you are, with a well-chosen companion for life. Enter- 
ing on the state with uncontaminated morals, you have the best 
possible prospect of happiness, and v/ill be secure against a thou- 
sand and ten thousand temptations to which, at an early period of 
life, in such a Babylon as you nmst necessarily inhabit, you would 
otherwise have been exposed. I see it too in the light you do, as 
likely to be advantageous to you in your profession. Men of busi- 
ness have a better opinion of a candidate for employment who is 
married, because he has given bond to the world, as you observe, 
and to himself, for diligence, industry, and attention. It is alto- 
gether, therefore, a subject of much congratulation, and mine (to 
which I add Mrs. Unwin's) is very sincere. Samson, at his 
marriage, proposed a riddle to the Philistines. I am no Samson, 
neither are you a Philistine, yet expound to m^ the following, if 
you can : 

What are they ivltich stand at a distance from each other^ an(i 
meet without ever inoving? 

Should you be so fortunate as to guess it, you may propose it to 
the company when you celebrate your nuptials, and if you can win 
thirty changes of raiment by it, as Samson did by his, let me tell 
you they will be no contemptible acquisition to a young beginner. 

You will not, I hope, forget your way to Weston in consequence 

fif your marriage, where you and yours will be always welcome. 

W. C. ' 
■ ■ <* 



LIFE OF COWPER. 213 



LETTER CXXXIX. 
To Mrs. BODHAM. 

Weston, June 29, ITSO. 
My dearest Cousin, 

It is true that I did sometimes complnin 
to Mrs. Unwin of your long silence, but it is likewise true that I 
made many excuses for you in my own mind, and did not fee! my- 
self at all inclined to be angry, nor even much to wonder. There 
is an aukwardness and a difficulty in writing to those whom dis- 
tance and length of time have made in a manner new to us, that 
jiaturally give us a check when we would otherwise be glad to ad- 
dress them. But a time, I hope, is near at hand, when you and I 
shall be effectually delivered from all such constraints, and cor- 
respond as fluently as if our intercourse had suffered much less 
interruption. 

You must not suppose, my dear, that though I may be said to 
have li\ed many years with a pen in my hand, I am myself al- 
together at my ease on this tremendous occasion. Imagine, rather, 
and you v/ill come nearer to the truth, that, when I placed this 
sheet before me, I asked myself more than once, " Hov,' shall I 
fill it?" One subject, indeed, presents itself, the pleasant prospect 
that opens upon me of our coming once more together; but that 
once exhausted, with what shall I proceed? Thus I questioned 
myself; but finding neither end nor profit of such questions, I 
bravely resolved to dismiss them all at once, and to engage in the 
great enterprize of a letter to my quondam Rose at a venture. — 
There is great truth in a rant of Nat. Lee's, or of Diyden's, I 
know not which, who makes an enamoured youth say to his mis- 
tress, 

*' And nonsense shall be eloquence in love." 

For certain it is, that they who truly love one another are not very 
nice examiners of each other's style or matter ; if an epistle comes, 
it is always welcome, though it be, pei-haps, neither so wise nor so 
witty as one might have wished to make it. 

And now, my cousin, let me tell thee how much I feel myself 
obliged to Mr. Bodham for the readiness he expresses to accept 
my invitation. Assure him that, stranger as he is to me at present, 
and natural as the dread of strangers has ever been to mc, I shall 
yet receive him with open arms, liecause he is your husljand, and 
loves you dearly. That consideration alone will endear him to me, 
find I dare say that I shall not find it his onl) recommendation to 



214 LIFE OF COWPER. 

my best affections. May the health of his relation (his mother f 
suppose) be soon restored, and long continued, and may nothing 
melancholy, of what kind soever, interfere to prevent our joyful 
meeting. Between the present moment and September, our house 
is clear for your reception, and you have nothing to do but to 
give us a day or two's notice of your coming. In Septeml^er we 
expect Lady Heskeih, and I only regret that our house is not lai-ge 
enough to hold all together, for were it possible that you could 
meet, you would love each other. 

Mrs. Unwin bids me offer you her best love. She is never well, 
but always patient, and always cheerful, and feels beforehand, that 
she shall be loth to part with you. 

My love to all the dear Donnes of every name. Write soon, no 
matter about what. W. C. 



LETTER CXL. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

July 7, ITQO. 
Instead of beginning with the saffron- 
vested morning to which Homer invites me, on a morning that has 
no saffron vest to boast, I shall begin with you. 

It is irksome to us both to wait so long as we must for you, but 
we are Avilling to hope that, by a longer stay, you will make us 
amends for all this tedious procrastination. 

Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole case to Mr. Gregson^ 
Avhose opinion of it has been very consolatory to me. He says, in- 
deed, it is a case perfectly out of the reach of all physical aid, but 
at the same time not at all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad 
grievance, whatever part is affected, and she is hardly ever free 
from an aching head, as well as an uneasy side ; but patience is an 
anodyne of God's own preparation, and of that he gives her largely. 

The French, who, like all liArely folks, are extreme in every 
thing, are such in their zeal for freedom, and if it were possible ta 
make so noble a cause ridiculous, their manner of promoting it 
could not fail to do so. Princes and peers reduced to plain gentle- 
manship, and gentles reduced to a lev^el with their own lacqueys, 
are excesses of which they will repent hereafter. Difference of 
rank and subordination are, I believe, of God's appointment, and, 
consequently, essential to the v;ell-being of society: but what we 
mean by fanaticism in religion is exactly that which animates their 
politics, and unless time should sober them, they will, after all, be 
an unhappy people. Perhaps it deserves not much to be wondered 
at, that, at their first escape from tj-rannic shackles, they shouM 



LIFE OF COWPER. '215 

act extravagantly, and treat their kings as they have sometimes 
treated their idols. To these, how ever, they arc reconciled in due 
time again, but their respect for monarchy is at an end. They 
want nothuig now but a little English sobriet)', and that they want 
extremely. I heartily wish them some wit in their anger, for it 
Avere great pity that so many millions should be miserable for want 
«f it. W. C. 



LETTER CXLL 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston^ July 8, ITOO. 
JVIy dear Johnny, 

You do Avell to perfect yourself on the 
violin. Only bcAvare that an amusement so very bewitching as 
music, especially when -we produce it ourselves, do not steal from 
you all those hours that sliould be given to study. I can be Avell 
content that it shoidd serve you as a refreshment after severer ex- 
ercises, but not that it should engross you wholly. Your own good 
sense will most probably dictate to you this precaution, and I might 
have spared you the trouble of it, but I have a degree of zeal for 
j^our proficiency in more important pursuits, that would not suffer 
me to suppress it. 

Having delivered my conscience by giving you this sage admo- 
nition, I will convince )'ou that I am a censor not over and above 
severe, by acknowledging, in the next place, that I ha\'e known very- 
good performers on the violin, very learned also ; and my cousin, 
Dr. Spencer Madan, is an instance. 

I am delighted that you have engaged your sister to visit us ; 
for I say to myself, if John be amiab'e, what must Catharine be ? 
For we males, be we angelic as we may, are always surpassed by 
the ladies. But know this, that I shall not be in love with either 
of you, if you stay with us only a few days, for you talk of a week 
or so. — Correct this erratum, I beseech you, and convince us by a 
much longer continuance here that it Avas one. 

W. C. 

Mrs. Unwin has iiever been well since you saw her. You are 
not passionately fond of letter-writing, I perceive, who have drop- 
ped a lady; but you will be a loser by the bargain ; for one letter 
of hers, in point of real utility and sterling value, is worth twenty 
of mine, and )"ou will never have another from her till you have 
earned it. 



Sli Lw^ OF COWPER; 



LETTER CXLII. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, July 31, 1796^ 
You have by this time, I presume, an- 
swered Lady Hesketh's letter: if not, answer it without delay; 
and this injunction I give you, judging that it may not be entirely 
unnecessary ; for though I have seen you but once, and only for 
two or three days, I have found out that you are a scatter-brain, 
I made the discov ery, perhaps, the sooner, because in this you very 
much resemble myself, who, in the course of my life, have, 
through mere carelessness and inattention, lost many advantages.; 
An insuperable shyness has also deprived me of many. And here 
again there is a resemblance between us. You will do well to 
guard against both, for of both, I believe, you have a consider- 
able share as well as myself. 

We long to see you again, and are only concerned at the shorC 
Stay you propose to make with us. If time should seem to you as 
short at Weston as it seems to us, your visit here will be gone 
" as a dream when one awaketh, or as a watch in the night." 

It is a life of dreams, but the pleasantest one naturally wishes 
longest. 

I shall find employment for you, having made already some 
part of the fair copy of the Odyssey a foul one. I am revising it 
for the last time, and spare nothing that I can mend. The Iliad is 
finished. 

If you have Donne's Poems, bring them with you, for I have 
not seen tliem many years, and should like to look them over. 

You may ti-eat us, too, if you please, with a little of your music, 
for I seldom hear any, and delight much in it. You need not fear 
a rival, for we have but two fiddles in the neighbourhood, one a 
gardener's, the other a taylor's — ^terrible performers both ! 

W. C. 



LETTER CXLIII. 
To Mrs. BODHAM. 

Weston, Sept. 9, 1790. 
My dear Cousin, 

I am truly sorry to be forced, after all, 
to resign the hope of seeing you and Mr. Bodham at Weston this 
year ; the next may possibly be more propitious, and I heartily 
wish it may. Poor Catharine's unseasonable indisposition has also 
cost us a disappoiixtment which we much regret ; and were it not 



LIFE OF CO^VPER. 217 

that Johnny has made shift to reach us, we should think ourselves 
completely unfortunate. But him we have, and him we will hold 
as long as we can, so expect not very soon to see him in Norfolk. 
He is so harmless, cheerful, gentle, and good-tempered, and I 
am so entirely at my ease with him, that I cannot surrender him 
without a needs must^ even to those who have a superior claim 
upon him. He left us yesterday morning, and whither do you 
think he has gone, and on what errand ? Gone, as sure as you 
are alive, to London, and to convey my Homer to the bookseller's. 
But he will return the day after to-morrow, and I mean to part 
with him no mord till necessity shall force us asunder. Suspect 
me not, my cousin, of being such a monster as to have imposed 
this task myself on your kind nephew, or even to have thought of 
doing it. It happened that, one day, as we chatted by the fire-side, 
1 expressed a wish that I could hear of some trusty body going to 
London, to whose care I might consign my voluminous laboui-s, 
the work of five years : for I purpose never to visit that city again 
myself, and should have been uneasy to have left a charge of so 
much importance to me, altogether to the care of a stage-coach- 
man. Johnny had no sooner heard my wish, than offering himself 
to the service, he fulfilled it ; and his offer was made in such terms, 
and accompanied with a countenance and manner expressive of 
so much alacrity, that, unreasonable as I thought it at first to give 
him so much trouble, I soon found that I should mortif}' him by a 
refusal. He is gone, therefore, with a box full of poetry, of 
which I think nobody will plunder him. He has only to say what 
it is, and there is no commodity, I think, a free-booter would 
covet less. W. C« 



LETTER CXLIV. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge, Sept. 13, 1790. 
Your letter was particularly welcome to 
me, not only because it came after a long silence, but because it 
brought me good news — news of your marriage, and, consequently, 
I trust, of your happiness. May that happiness be durable as 
your lives, and may you be the felices ter et amfilius of whom 
Horace sings so sweetly ! This is my sincere wish, and, though 
expressed in prose, shall serve as your cpithalamium. You com- 
fort me when you say that your marriage will not deprive us of 
the sight of you hereafter. If }ou do not wish that I should re- 
gret your union, )ou must make that assurance good as often as 
you have opportunity. 

VOL. I. F f 



218 LIFE OF COWPER. 

After perpetual versification during five years, I find myself at 
last a vacant man, and reduced to read for my amusement. My 
Homer is gone to the press, and you will imagine that I feel a 
void in consequence. The proofs, however, will be coming soon, 
and I shall avail myself, with all my force, of this last opportunity 
to make my work as perfect as I wish it. I shaU not, therefoi'e, 
be long time destitute of employment, but shall have sufficient to 
keep me occupied all the winter, and part of the ensumg spring, 
for Johnson purposes to publish either in March, April, or May. 
My very preface is finished. It did not cost me much trouble, 
being neither long nor learned. I have spoken my mind as freely 
as decency would permit on the subject of Pope's version, allowing 
him, at the same time, all the merit to wliich I think him en- 
titled. I have given my reasons for translating in blank verse:, 
and hold some discourse on the mechanism of it, chiefly with a 
view to obviate the prejudices of some people against it. I expa- 
tiate a little on the manner in which I tliink Homer ought to be 
rendered, and in v/liich I have endeavoured to render him myself, 
and anticipated two or three cavils to which I foresee that I shall 
be liable from the ignorant or uncandid, in order, if possible, to 
prevent them. These are the chief heads of my preface, and 
the whole consists of about twelve pages. 

It is possible, when I come to treat with Johnson about the copy, 
I may want some person to negociate for me, and knowing no one 
so intelligent as yourself in books, or so well qualified to estimate 
their just value, I shall beg leave to resort to and rely on you as 
my negociator. But I will not trouble you unless I should see oc- 
casion. My cousin was the beai'er of my MSS. to London. He 
went on purpose, and returns to-morrow. Mrs. Unwin's affec- 
tionate felicitations, added to my own, conclude me, dear friend,. 
sincerely yours, W. C. 

The trees of a colonade will solve my riddle* 



LETTER CXLV. 
To Mrs. BODHAM. 

Weston, Mv. 21, 1790. 
My dear Coz» 

Our kindness to your nephew is no more 
than he must entitle himself to wherever he goes. His amiable 
disposition and manners will never fail to secure him a warm 
place in the affections of all who know him. The advice I gave 
respecting his pcem on Audley End was dictated by my love 
of him, and a sincere desire of his success. It is one thing to 
yfrite what may please ouv friends, who, because they are suchj. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 219 

5rpe apt to be a little biassed in our favour ; and another to write 
>vhat may please every body : because they who have no connec- 
tion, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault 
if they can. My advice, however salutary and necessary, as it 
seemed to me, was such as I dare not have given to a poet of less 
diffidence than he. Poets are to a proverb irritable, and he is 
the only one I ever knew who seems to have no spark of that fire 
about him. He has left us about a foi-tnight, and sorry we were to 
lose him ; but had he been my son he must have gone, and I could 
not have regretted him more. If his sister be still with you, pre- 
sent my lo^e to her, and tell her how much I wish to see them 
at Weston togetlier. 

Mrs. Hewitt probably remembers more of my childhood than I 
can recollect either of hers or my own ; but this I recollect, that 
the days of that period were happy days, compared with most I 
have seen since. There are few, perhaps, in the world, who have 
not cause to look back with regret on tlie days of infancy ; yet, to 
say the truth, I suspect some deception in this : for infancy itself 
has its cares, and though we cannot now conceive how trifles could 
affect us much, it is certain that they did. Trifles they appear 
now, but such they were not tlien. W. C. 



LETTER CXLVI. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 
My Birth-Day. 

Friday, Mv. 26, 1/90. 
My dearest Johnny, 

I am happy that you have escaped from 
the claws of Euclid into the bosom of Justinian. It is useful, I 
suppose, to every man to be Avell grounded in the principles of 
jurisprudence, and I take it to be a branch of science that bids 
much faii'er to enlarge the mind, and give an accuracy of rea- 
soning, than all the mathematics in the world. Mind your studies, 
and you will soon be wiser than I can hope to be. 

We had a visit on Monday from one of the first women in the 
world — in point of character I mean, and accomplishments — the 
Dowager Lady Spencer! I may receive, perhaps, some honours 
hereafter, should my translation speed according to my wishes, 
and the pains I have taken with it ; but shall never receive any 
that I shall esteem so highly. She is, indeed, worthy to whom I 
should dedicate, and may but my Odyssey prove as worthy of her, 
I shall have nothing to fear from the critics. 

Yours, my dear Johnny, with much affection, W. C. 



220 LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER CXLVIL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
My dear Friend, Wcsto7i, J\,^ov. 30, 1790, 

I will confess that I thought your letter 
somewhat tardy, though, at the same time, I made every excuse for 
you, except, as it seems, the right. That^ indeed, was out of the 
reach of all possible conjecture. I could not guess that your si- 
lence was occasioned by your being occupied with either thieves 
or thief-takers. Since, however, the cause was such, I rejoice 
that your labours were not in vain, and that the free-booters who 
had plundered your friend are safe in limbo. I admire, too, as 
much as I rejoice in your success, the indefatigable spirit that 
prompted you to pursue, Avith such unremittirig perseverance, an 
object not to be reached but at the expense of infinite trouble, and 
that must have led you into an acquaintance with scenes and cha- 
racters the most horrible to a mind like yours. I see in this con- 
duct the zeal and firmness of your friendship, to whomsoever pro- 
fessed ; and though I wanted not a proof of it myself, contemplate 
so unequivocal an indication of what you really are, and of what 
I always believed you to be, with much pleasure. May you rise 
from the condition of an humble prosecutor, or witness, to the 
bench of judgment. 

When your letter arrived, it found me with the worst and most 
obstinate cold that I ever caught. This was one reason why it 
had not a speedier answer. Another is, that, except Tuesday 
morning, there is none in the week in which I am not engaged in 
the last revisal of my translation ; the revisal, I mean, of my 
proof-sheets. To this business I give myself with an assiduity and 
attention truly admirable; and set an example which, if other 
poets could be apprized of, they would do well to follow. Mis- 
carriages in authorship, I am persuaded, are as often to be as- 
cribed to want of pains-taking as to want of ability. 

Lady Hesketh, Mrs. Unwin and myself often mention you, and 
always in terms that, though you would l)lush to hear them, you 
need not be ashamed of: at the same time wishing much that you 
could change our trio into a quartette, W. C. 

LETTER CXLMIL 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, Dec. 18, 1790. 
I perceive myself so flattered by the in- 
stances of illustrious success mentioned in your letter, that I feel all 
the amiable modesty, for which I was once so famous, sensibly 
giving way to a spirit of vain-glory. 



LIFE OF CO\WER. 221 

The King's College subscription makes me prcvul. The effect 
tliat my verses have had on your two young friends, the mathe- 
maticians, makes me proud, and I am, if possible, prouder still 
of the contents of the letter that you enclosed. 

You complained of being stupid, and sent me one of the cle- 
verest letters. I have not complained of being stupid, and have 
sent you one of the dullest. But it is no matter; I never aim at 
any thing above the pitch of every day's scribble, when I write to 
those I love. 

Homer proceeds, my boy — ^W^e shall get through it in time, and 
I hope by the time appointed. We are now in the tenth Iliad. I 
expect the ladies every minute to breakfast. You have their best 
love. Mine attends the whole army of Domies at Mattishall Green 
assembled. How happy should I find myself were I but one of the 
party ! My capering days are over, but do you caper for me, 
that you may give them some idea of the happiness I should feel 
"ivere I in the midst of them. V\'. C. 

LETTER CXLIX. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, Jan. 21, 1791, 
I know that you have already been ca- 
techized by Lady Hesketh on the subject of your return hither 
before the winter shall be over, and shall therefore only say, that 
if you can come, we shall be happy to receive you. Remember 
also, that nothing can excuse the non-performance of a promise 
but absolute necessity. In the mean time, my faith in your veracity 
is such, that I am persuaded you "will suffer nothing less than ne- 
cessity to prevent it. Were you not extremely pleasant to us, and 
just the sort of youth that suits us, we should neither of us have 
said half so much, or perhaps a word on the subject. 

Yours, my dear Johnny, are vagaries that I shall never see prac- 
tised by any other, and whether you slap your ancle, or reel as if 
you were fuddled, or dance in the path before me, all is character- 
istic of yourself, and therefore to me delightful. I have hinted to 
you, indeed, sometimes, that you should be cautious of indulging 
antic habits and singularities of all sorts, and young men in general 
have need enough of such admonition ; but yours are a sort of fairy 
habits, such as might belong to Puck or Robin Goodfellow ; and, 
therefore, good as the advice is, I should l)c half sorry should you 
take it. 

This allowance, at least, I give you. Continue to take }our 
■walks, if walks they may be called, exactly in their present fa- 
shion, till you have taken orders. Then, indeed, for as much as 



^2 LIFE OF COWPER. 

a skipping, curvetting, bounding divine might be a spectacle not 
altogether seemly, I shall consent to your adoption of a more 
grave demeanour. W. C. 

LETTER CL. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
Mr DEAR Friend, The Lodge ^ Feb. S, 1791. 

My letters to you are all either peti- 
tionary, or in the style of ackowledgments and thanks, and such 
nearly in an alternate order. In my last I loaded you with com- 
missions, for the due discharge of which I am now to say, and say 
truly, how much I feel myself obliged to you. Neither can I stop 
there, but must thank you likewise for new honours from Scotland, 
■which have left mo nothing to wish for from that country, for my 
list is now, I believe, graced with the subscription of all its learned 
bodies. I regret only that some of them arrived too late to do 
honour to my present publication of names ; but there are those 
among them, and from Scotland too, that may give an useful hint, 
perhaps, to our own universities. Your very handsome present of 
Pope's Homer has arrived safe, notwithstanding an accident that 
befell him by the way. The hall-servant brought the parcel from 
Olney, resting it on the pommel of the saddle, and his horse fell 
with him : Pope was, in consequence, rolled in the dirt, but being 
well coated got no damage. If augurs and soothsayers were not 
out of fashion, I should have consulted one or two of that order, in 
hope of learning from them that this fall was ominous. I have 
found a place for him in the parlour, where he makes a splendid 
appearance, and where he shall not long want a neighbour; one 
who, if less popular than himself, shall at least look as big as he. 
ilow has it happened, that since Pope did certainly dedicate both 
Iliad and Odyssey, no dedication is found in this first edition of 
tliem? " W. C. 

LETTER CLI. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Feb. 13, 1791. 
I can now send you a full and true ac- 
count of this business : having learned that your inn at Woburn 
was the George, we sent Samuel thither yesterday. Mr. Martin, 
master of the George, told him *************.•{• 

W. C. 

+ Note hy the Editor.— This letter contained the history of a servant's cruelty to a post- 
horse, whicli a reader ot" humanity could not wish to see in print. Ent the postscript de- 
scribes so pleasantly the signal influence of a poet's reputation on the spirit of a liberal inn- 
keeper, that it surely ought not to be suppressed. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 223 

P. S. I cannot help adding a circumstance that will divert you. 
Martin having learned from Sam whose servant he was, told him 
that he had never seen Mr. Cowper, but he had heard him fre- 
quently spoken of by the companies that had called at his house; 
and therefore, when Sam would have paid for his breakfast, would 
take nothing fi*om him. Who says that fame is only empty breath? 
On the contrary, it is good ale and cold beef into the bargain 



LETTER CLIL 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Feb. 27, 1791. 
Now, my dearest Johnny, I must tell thee, 
in few words, how much I love and am obliged to thee for thy af- 
fectionate services. 

My Cambridge honours are all to be ascribed to you, and to you 
only. Yet you are but a little man, and a little man into the bar- 
gain, who have kicked the mathematics, their idol, out of your 
study. So important are tlie endings which Providence frequently 
connects with small beginnings. Had }'ou been here, I could have 
jEurnished you with much employment, for I have so dealt with 
your fair MSS. in the course of my polishing and improving, that I 
have almost blotted out the whole : such, however, as it is, I must 
now send it to the printer, and he must be content with it, for 
there is not time to make a fresh copy. We are now printing the 
second book of the Odysey. 

Should the Oxonians bestow none of their notice on me on this 
occasion, it will happen singularly enough, that as Pope received 
all his university honours, in the subscription way, from Oxford, 
and none at all from Cambridge, so I shall have received all mine 
from Cambridge, and none from Oxford. This is the more likely 
to be the case, because I understand, that on whatsoever occasion 
either of those learned bodies thinks fit to move, the other always 
makes it a point to sit still — thus proving its superiority. 

I shall send up your letter to Lady Hesketh in a day or two, 
knowing that the intelligence contained in it will afford her the 
greatest pleasure. Know, likewise, for your own gratification, 
that all the Scotch universities have subscribed, none excepted. 

We are all as well as usual; that is to say, as well as reasonable 
folks expect to be on the crazy side of this frail existence. 

I rejoice that we shall so soon have you again at our fire-side. 

w. c. 



224 LIFE OF COWI-ER, 

LETTER CLIIL 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

We. (071, March 6, tr9i„ 
After all this ploughing and sowing on 
Ihe plains of Troy, f)nce fruitfui, such at least to my translating 
predecessor, some harvest, I hope, will arise for me also. My 
long work has received its last, last touches ; and I am now giving 
my preface its final adjustment. We are in the fourth Odyssey in 
the course of our printing, and I expect that I and the swallows 
shall appear together : they have slept al; the winter, but I, on the 
contrary, have been extremely busy ; yet if I can " Virum -voli- 
tare Jier ora" as swiftly as they through the air, I shall accoimt 
myself well requited. W. C. 

LETTER CLIV. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

March 10, 1791. 
Give my affectionate remembrances to 
rour sisters, and tell them I am impatient to entertain them with 
my old story new dressed. 

I have two French prints hanging in my study, both on Iliad 
subjects; and I have an English one in the parlour, on a subject 
from the same poem. In one of the former, Agamemnon addresses 
Achilles exactly in the attitude of a dancing-master turning Miss 
in a minuet: in the latter, the figures are plain, and the altitudes 
plain also. This is, in some considerab.e measure, I believe, the 
difference between my translation and Pope's; and v^^iU serve as 
an exemplification of what I am going to lay before you, and the 
public. W. C. 

LETTER CLV. 

To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 
My dearest Johnny, Westoti, March 19, IITQI. 

You ask if it may not be improper to 
solicit Lady Hesketh's subscription to the poems of the Norwich. 
maiden? To which I reply, it will be by no means improper: on 
tlie contrary, I am persuaded that she will give her name with a 
very good will, for she is much an admirer of poesy that is worthy 
to be admired; and such I think, judging by the specimen, the 
poesy of this maiden, Elizabeth Bentley, of Norwich, is likely to 
prove. 

Not that I am myself inclined to expect, in general, great mat- 
ters in the poetical way from persons whose ill fortune it has been 
to want the common advantages of education ; neither do I account 



LIFE OF COWPER. 325 

It, in general, a kindness to such to encoiu'age them in tlie indul- 
gence of a propensity more likely to do them harm, in the end, 
than to advance their interest. Many such phenomena have arisen 
within my i-emembrance, at which all the world has wondered for 
a season, and has then forgot them. 

The fact is, that though strong natural genius is always accom- 
panied with strong natural tendency to its object, yet it often hap^ 
per,s that the tendency is found where the genius is wanting. In 
the present instance, however, (the poems of a certain Mrs. Lea- 
por excepted, Avho published some forty years ago) I discern, I 
think, more marks of a true poetical talent than I remember to 
have observed in the verses of any other male or female so dis- 
advantageously circumstanced. I wish her, therefore, good speed, 
and subscribe to her with all my heart. 

You will rejoice when 1 tell you that I have some hopes, after 
all, of a harvest from Oxford also : Mr. Throckmorton has writ- 
ten to a person of considerable influence there, which he has de- 
sired him to exert in my favour, and his request, I should imagine, 
will hardly prove a vain one. Adieu, W. C. 



LETTER CLVL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
My dear Friend, Weston, March 24, 1791. 

You apologize for your silence in a manner 
which affords me so much pleasure that I cannot but be satisfied. 
Let business be the cause, and I am contented. That is a cause 
to which I would even be accessary myself, and would increase 
yours by any means, except by a law-suit of my own, at the ex- 
pense of all your opportunities of writing oftener than thrice in a 
twehemonth. 

Your application to Dr. Dunbar reminds me of two lines to be 
found some where in Dr. Young — 

" And now a poet's gratitude you see, 

" Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three." 

In this particular, therefore, I perceive that a poet and a poet's 
friend bear a striking resemblance to each other. The Doctor 
will bless himself that the number of Scotch universities is not 
larger, assured that, if they equalled those in England in number 
of colleges, you would give him no rest till he had engaged them 
all. It is true, as Lady Hesketh told you, that I shall not fear, in 
the matter of subscriptions, a comparison even with Pope himself. 
Considering, I mean, that we live in days of terrible taxation, and 
\\\\ci\ verse, not being a necessary of life, is accouiited dear, be it 
VOL. I, G g 



226 LIFE OF COWPER. 

what it may, even at the lowest price. I am no very good arith-- 
metician, yet I calculated the other day in my morning walk, that 
my two volumes, at the price of three guineas, will cost the pur- 
chaser less than the seventh part of a farthing per line. Yet there 
are lines among them that have cost me the labour of hours, and 
none that have not cost me some labour. W. C. 



LETTER CLVII. 
To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. 

Jjirlll, 1791. 
My dear Mrs. Frog, a word or two be- 
fore breakfast, which is all that I shall have time to send you. 

You have not, I hope, forgot to tell Mr. Frog how much I am 
obliged to him for his kind, though unsuccessful attempt in my fa- 
vour at Oxford. It seems not a little extraordinary, that persons 
so nobly patronized themselves, on the score of literature, should 
resolve to give no encouragement to it in i-eturn. Should I find a 
fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I will not neglect it. 

Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor, 
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door. 
The rich old vixen would exclaim, I fear, 
" Begone I no trampler gets a farthing here." 

I have read your husband's pamplilet through and through. You 
may think, perhaps, and so may he, that a question so remote 
from all concern of mine could not interest me ; but if you think; 
so, you are both mistaken. He can write nothing that will not in- 
terest me ; in the first place for the writer's sake, and in the next 
place, because he writes better and reasons better than any body ; 
with more candour, and with more sufficiency ; and, consequently,^ 
"with more satisfaction to all his readers, save only his opponents. 
They, I think, by this time, wish that they had let him alone. 

Tom is delighted past measure with his wooden nag, and gallops 
at a rate, that would kill any horse that had a life to lose. 

W. C. 

LETTER CLVIII. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 
My dear JoHNNiT, Weston, JjirilG, 179i. 

A thousand thanks for your splendid as* 
semblage of Cambridge luminaries. If you are not contented 
with your collection, it can only be because you are unreasonable ; 
for I, who may be supposed more covetous on this occasion than 
anybody, am highly satisfied, and even delighted with it. If, in,« 



LIFE OF COWPER. Vif 

^ed, you should find it practicable to add still to the number, I 
have not the least objection ; but tliis charge I give you, 

Stay not an hour beyond the time you have mentioned, even 
tliough you should be able to add a thousand names by doing so ; 
for I cannot aflFord to purchase them at that cost. I long to see 
you, and so do we both, and will not suffer you to postpone your 
visit for any such consideration. No, my dear boy, m the affair of 
subscriptions -we are already illustrious enough ; shall be so at least 
when you shall have enlisted a college or two more, which, per- 
haps, ycu may be ab!e to do in the course of the ensuing week. I 
feel myself much obliged to your university, and much disposed to 
admire the liberality of spirit they have shown on this occasion. 
Certainly I had not deserved much favour of their hands, all things 
considered ; but the cause of literature seems to have some weight 
with tlicm, and to have superseded the resentment they might be 
supposed to entertain on the score of certain censures that you wot 
of. It is not so at Oxford. W. C. 

LETTER CLIX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Ajiril'2.9, 1791. 
I forget if I told you that Mr. Throck- 
morton had applied, through the medium of , to the university 

of Oxford. He did so, but without success. Their answer was, 
" that they subscribe to nothing." 

Pope's subscriptions did not amount, I think, to six hvmdred ; 
and mine will not fall very far short of five. Noble doings, at a 
time of day when Homer has no news to tell us, and when all othe.r 
comforts of life having risen in price, poetry has of course fallen. 
I call it a " comfort of life:" it is so to others, but to myself it is 
become even a necessary. 

These holiday times are verj- unfavourable to the printer's pro- 
gress. He and all his demons are making themselves merry, and 
me sad, for I mourn at every hindcrance. W. C. 

LETTER CLX. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 
My dearest Johnny, Weston^ May 23, 1791. 

Did I not know that yo\i are never more 
in your element than when you are exerting yourself in my cause, 
I should congratulate you on the hope there seems to be that your 
labour will soon have an end. 



22^ LIFE OF COWPER. 

You will wonder, perhaps, my Johnny, that Mrs. Unwin, by my 
desire, enjoined you to secrecy concerning the translation of the 
Frogs and Mice. Wonderful it may well seem to you, that I should 
wish to hide, for a short time, from a few, what I am just going 
to publish to all. But I had more reasons than one for this myste- 
rious management ; that is to say, I had two. In the first place, I 
wished to surprise my readers agreeably ; and, secondly, I wished 
to allow none of my friends an opportunity to object to the mea- 
sure, who might think it, perhaps, a measure more bountiful than 
prudent. But I have had my sufficient reward, though not a 
pecuniary one. It is a poem of much humour, and accordingly I 
found the translation of it very amusing. It struck me too, that I 
must either make it part of the presciit publication, or never pub- 
lish it at all ; it would have been so terribly out of its place in any 
other volume. 

I long for the time that shall bring you once more to Weston, 
and all your e/ cf Acre's with you. Oh! what a month of May ha? 
this been ! Let never poet, English poet at least, give himself to 
the praises of May again. W. C^ 

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 

Two Nymphs, both nearly of an age, 

Of numerous charms possess'd, 
A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage, 

Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete, 

Had both alike been mild ; 
But one, although her smile was sweet, 

Frown'd oft'ner than she smil'd. 

And in her humour, when she frown'd. 

Would raise her voice and roar. 
And shake with fury, to the groundj 

The garland that she wore. 

The other was of gentler cast, 

From all such frenzy cleai^ ; 
Her frowns were seldom known to last, 

And never prov'd severe. 

To p'^ets of renown in song, 

The Nymphs referr'd the cause, 
Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong. 

And gave misplac'd applause. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 

Tliey gentle call'd, and kind, and soft, 
The flippant and the scold; 

And though she chang'd her mood so oft, 
That failing left untold. 

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad. 

Or so resolv'd to err ; 
In short, the charms her sister had 

They lavish'd all on her. 

Then thus the God, whom fondly they 

Their great inspirer call. 
Was heard, one genial summer's day, 

To reprimand them all. 

" Since thus ye have combin'd," he said, 
" My fav'rite Nymph to slight, 

*' Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
" With June's undoubted right; 

" The Minx shall, for your folly's sake, 
*' Still prove herself a shrew ; 

" Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 
" And pinch your noses blue." 



LETTER CLXL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
My dear Friend, The Lodge., June 15, 1791, 

If it will afford you any comfort that you 
have a share in my affections, of that comfort aou may avail your- 
self at all times. You have acquired it by means which, unless I 
should become worthless myself, to an uncommon degree, will al- 
ways secure you from the loss of it. You are learning what all 
learn, though few at so early an age, that man is an ungrateful 
animal ; and that benefits too often, instead of securing a due re- 
turn, operate rather as provocations to ill-treatment. This I take 
to be the suvimum malum of the human heart. Towards God we 
are all guilty of it, more or less ; but between man and man, we 
may thank God for it, there are some exceptions. He leaves this 
peccant principle to operate, in some degree against himself, in 
all, for our humiliation I suppose; and l)ecause the pernicious ef- 
fects of it cannot, in reality, injure him ; he cannot suffer by them ; 
but he knows, that unless he should restrain its influence on the 
dealings of mankind with each other, the bonds of society would 
be dissolved, and all charitable intercourse at an end amongst us. 



230 LIFE OF COWPER. 

It was said of Archbishop Cranmer, " Do him an ill turn, and 
you make him your friend for ever:" of others it may be said, 
*' Do them a good one, and they will be for eA'er your enemies." 
It is the grace of God only that makes the diiference. 

The absence of Homer (for we have now shaken hands and 
parted) is well supplied by three relations of mine from Norfolk — 
my cousin Johnson, an aunt of his, and his sister. I love them all 
dearly, and am well contented to resign to them the place in my at- 
tentions so lately occupied by the chiefs of Greece and Troy. His 
aunt and I have spent many a merry day together, when we were 
Slime forty years younger; and we make shift to be merry together 
still. His sister is a sweet young woman, graceful, good-natured, 
and gentle, just what I had imagined her to be before I had seen her. 
Farewell! W. C. 



The occurrences related in the series of letters that I have just 
imparted to my reader, have now bro%ight me to the close of the 
second period in my work. As I contemplated the life of my friend, 
it seemed to display itself in three obvious divisions; the first end- 
ing with tlie remarkable xra when he burst forth on the world, as 
a poet, in his fiftieth year ; on which occasion we may apply 
to iiim the lively compliment of Waller to Denham, and say, with 
superior truth, " He burst out like the Irish rebellion, three score 
thousand strong, when nobody was aware, or in the least suspected 
it." The second division may conclude with the publication of his 
Homer ; comprizing the incidents of ten splendid and fruitful years, 
that may be regarded as the meridian of his poetical career. The 
subsequent period extends to that awful event which terminates 
every labour of the poet and the man. 

We ha^e seen, in many of the preceding letters, with what ar- 
dour of application and liveliness of hope he devoted himself to his 
favourite project of enriching the literature of his country with an 
English Homer, that might be justly esteemed as a faithful, yet 
fi'ee translation ; a genuine and graceful representative of the justly 
idolized original. 

After five years of intense and affectionate labour, in which no- 
thing could -withhold him from his interesting work, except that 
oppressive and cruel malady which suspended his powers of ap- 
plication for several months, he published his complete version in 
two quarto volumes, on the first of July, 1791 ; having inscribed the 
Iliad to his young noble kinsman, Eai'l Cowpcr, and the Odyssey 
to the Dowager Countess Spencer, a lady for whose virtues he 
had long entertained a most cordial and affectionate veneration* 



LIFE OF COWPER. 231 

The accomplished translator had exerted no common powers of 
genius and of industry to satisfy both himself and the world; yet, 
in his first edition of this long-laboured work, he afforded complete 
satisfaction to neither, and I believe for this reason : Homer is so 
exquisitely beautiful in his own language, and he has been so long 
an idol in every literary mind, that any copy of him, which the 
best of modern poets can execute, must probably resemble, in its 
effect, the porti-ait of a graceful woman, painted by an excellent 
artist for her lover: the lover, indeed, will acknowledge great 
merit in the work, and think himself much indebted to the skill of 
such an artist ; but he will never acknowledge, as in ti'uth he never 
can feel, that the best of resemblances exhibits all the grace that 
he discerns in the beloved original. 

So fares it with the admirers of Homer; his very translators 
themselves feel so perfectly the power of this predominant affec- 
tion, that they gradually grow discontented with their own labour, 
however approved in the moment of its supposed completion. 
This was so remarkably the case with Cowper, that, in process of 
time, we shall see him employed upon what may almost be called 
his second translation ; so great were the alterations he made in a 
deliberate revisal of his work for a second edition. And in tlie 
preface which he prepared for that edition, he has spoken of his 
own labour with the most frank and ingenuous veracity. Yet of 
the first edition it may, I think, be fairly said, that it accomplished 
more than any of his poetical predecessors had achieved before 
him. It made the nearest approach to that sweet majestic simpli- 
city whicli forms one of tlie most attractive features in the great 
prince and father of poets. 

Cowper, in reading Pope's Homer to Lady Austen and Mrs. 
Unwin, had frequently expressed a wisli, and an expectation of 
seeing the simplicity of the ancient Bard more feithfuUy preserved 
in a new English version. Lady Austen, with a kind severity, 
reproved him for expecting from others what he, of all men living, 
was best qualified to accomplish himself; and her solicitations on 
the subject excited him to the arduous undertaking; thougli it 
seems not to have been actually begun till after her departure 
from Olney. 

If he was not at first completely successful in tliis long and 
mighty >vork, the continual and voluntary application with which 
he pursued it, was to himself a blessing of the utmost importance. 

In those admirable admonitions to men of a poetical tempera- 
ment, with wliich Dr. Currie has closed his instructive and pleas- 
jug " Life of Burns," that accomplished ph3sician has justly 
jpointed to a regular and constiuit occupation, as the true rcraed/ 



232 LIFE OF COWPER. 

for ail inordinate sensibility, which may prove so perilous an 
enemy to the peace and happiness of a poet. His remark appears 
to be pai'ticularly verified in the striking, and, I may say, medicinal 
influence, which a daily attachment of his thoughts to Homer pro- 
duced, for a long time, on the tender spirits of my friend ; an in-., 
fluence sufficiently pi-oved by his frequent declarations, that he 
should be sorry to find himself at the end of his labour. The woi-k 
was certainly beneficial to his health ; it contributed a little to his 
fortune; and ultimately, I am persuaded, it will redound to his 
fame in a much higher degi'ee than it has hitherto done. Time 
will probably proA-e, that if it is not a perfect representation of 
Homer, it is at least such a copy of the matchless original, as no 
modern writer can surpass in the two essential articles of fidelity 
and freedom. 

I must not omit to obsei've one more advantage which Cowper 
derived from this extensive labour, for it is an advantage which 
reflects great honour on his sensibility as a man : I mean a constant 
flow of affectionate pleasure that he felt in the many kind offices 
which he received, from several friends, in the course of this la- 
borious occupation. 

I cannot more clearly illustrate his feelings on this subject, than 
by introducing a passage from one of his letters to his most assi- 
duous and affectionate amanuensis, his young kinsman of Norfolk. 
It breathes all the tender moral spirit of Co^vper, and shall, there- 
fore, close the second division of my v/oi'k. 

Weston, June 1, 1791. 
My dearest Johnny, 

Now }-ou may rest — now I can give you 
joy of the period of wliich I ga.ve you hope in my last; the period . 
of all your labours in my service. But this I can foretel you also, 
that if you persevere in serving your friends at this rate, your life 
is likely to be a life of labour: Yet persevere; your rest will be 
the sweeter hereafter. Tn the mean time I wish you, if at any time 
you should find occasion for him, just such a friend as you have 
proved to me. W. C* 



END OF THE SECON'D PART, AND OF THE FIRST VOLUME, 



i 



TK£ 



LIFE 



POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS 



WILLIAM COWPER, Esq. 



"^ 



THE 

LIFE 

AND 

POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS 

OF 

WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

WITH AN 

INTRODUCTORY LETTER 

TO THE 

RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL COWPER. 



BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

" Obversatur oculis ille vir, quo neminem actas nostra graviorem, sanc- 
" tiorem, subtiliorem denique tulit: quern ego quum ex admiratione dili- 
"' gere coepissem, quod evenire contra solet, magis admiratus sum, post- 
" quam penitus inspexi. Inspexi enim penitus : nihil a me ille secretum, 
" non joculare, non serium, non triste, non Ixtum." 

Plinii Epist. Lib. iv. Ep. 17. 



VOL. IL 



NEW-YORK: 



PRINTED AND SOLD BY T. AND J. SWORDS, 
No. 160 Pcarl-Strect. 

1803. 



CONTENTS 

OF THE 

SECOND VOLUME. 



JL HE Life, Part the Third — Cowper is solicited to engage in a splendid 
Edition of Milton — acquiesces in the Proposal — Origin of his Intimacy 
•with his present Biographer — his Friendship for the late Professor of 
Poetry, the Rev. James Hindis, 1 to 4. 

Letter 1 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 

2 To the same 

3 To the same 

4 To John Johnson, Esq. 

5 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

6 To John Johnson, Esq. 

7 To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

8 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 

9 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

10 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 

11 To the same 

12 To John Johnson, Esq. 

Verses to the Night 

13 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 

14 To Lady Hesketh 

15 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

16 To the same 

17 To William Hayley, Esq. 

18 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 

19 To Lady Throckmorton 

Sonnet to William Wilberforce, Esq. page 21. 

20 To Lady Hesketh May 5, 1792 22 

21 To John Johnson, Esq. May 20, 1792 23 
The Author's Visit to Weston, 24. Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin, by Cowper, 24. 

Her severe Illness and gradual Recovery, 25, 26. 
Letter 22 To Lady Hesketh May 24, 1792 26 

23 To the same May 26, 1792 27 

Verses to the late Dr. Austen, of Cecil-street, page 28. 

28 
29 
i!j. 
30 
31 



March 6, 


1791 


4 


June 13, 


1791 


5 


Aug. 9, 


1791 


6 


Aug. 9, 


1791 


8 


Sept. 14, 


1791 


ib. 


Oct. 31, 


1791 


9 


Nov. 14, 


1791 


10 


Dec. 10, 


1791 


ib. 


Dec. 21, 


1791 


11 


Feb. 21, 


1792 


12 


March 2, 


1792 


13 


March 11, 


1792 


lb. 


le, page 14 






March 23, 


1792 


U 


March 25, 


1792 


16 


March 30, 


1792 


ir 


April 5, 


1792 


ib. 


April 6, 


1792 


18 


April 8, 


1792 


19 


April 16, 


1792 


20 



Letter 24 


To Mrs. Bodham 


June 


4, 


1792 


25 


To William Hayley, Esq. 


June 


3, 


1792 


26 


To the same 


June 


5, 


1792 


27 


To the same 


June 


7, 


1792 


28 


To the same 


June 


10, 


1792 



Tl 



CONTENTS. 



Verses to Dr. Darwin, Author of the Botanic Garden, page 32. 



Letter 29 
30 

31 

32 
33 
34 

Letter 35 
^6 
37 
38 
39 
40 
41 
42 

Letter 43 
44 
45 
46 
47 
48 
49 

50 
51 
52 
5^ 
54 
55 
56 
57 
58 
59 
60 
61 
62 
63 
64 
65 
66 
67 
68 
69 
70 



To WUliam Hayley, Esq. 
To the same, enclosing Catha- 

rina, 2d Part, a Poem 
To the same 
To the same 
To the same 
To the same 



June 19, 1792 Page 33 



June 
July 
July 
July 
July 



27, 1792 
4, 1792 
15, 1792 
22, 1792 
29, 1792 



Cowper's Visit to Eartham, page 39. 
To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed Aug. 6, 1792 
To Mrs. Courteney Aug. 12, 1792 

To Samuel Rose, Esq. Aug. 14, 1792 

To the same Aug. 18, 1792 

To Mrs. Courteney Aug. 25, 1792 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis Aug. 26, 1792 

To Lady Hesketh Aug. 26, 1792 

To the same Sept. 9, 1792 

Cowper's Departure from Eartham, page 48. 



To William Hayley, Esq. 
To the same 
To the same 
To the same 
To John Johnson, Esq. 
To the same 

To William Hayley, Esq. en- 
closing a Sonnet to Romney 
To Samuel Rose, Esq. 
To John Johnson, Esq. 
To William Hayley, Esq. 
To Joseph Hill, Esq. 
To William Hayley, Esq. 
To the same 
To the same 
To Samuel Rose, Esq. 
To Lady Hesketh 
To Samuel Rose, Esq. 
To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 
To William Hayley, Esq. 
To Mr. Thomas Hayley 
To V/illiam Hayley, Esq. 
To Samuel Rose, Esq. 
To John Johnson, Esq. 
To William Hayley, Esq. 
To Samuel Rose, Esq. 
To Lady Hesketh 
To William Kayley, Esq. 
To Lady Hesketh 



Sept. 

Sept. 

Oct. 

Oct. 

Oct. 

Oct. 



18, 1792 

21, 1792 
2, 1792 

13, 1792 

19, 1792 

22, 1792 



Oct. 

Nov. 
Nov. 
Nov. 
Dec. 
Dec. 
Jan. 
Jan. 
Feb. 
Feb. 
Feb. 
Feb. 
Feb. 



28, 1792 
9, 1792 

20, 1792 

22, 1792 

16, 1792 
26, 1792 

20, 1793 

29, 1793 
5, 1793 

10, 1793 

17, 1793 

23, 1793 

24, 1793 
March 14, 1793 
March 19, 1793 
March 27, 1793 
April 11, 1793 

23, 1793 
5, 1793 
7, 1793 

21, 1793 
1, 1793 



April 

May 
May 
May 
June 



ib. 
35 
36 
37 
33 

40 
41 
42 
43 
ib. 
44 
45 
47 

48 
49 
50 
51 
52 
ib. 

53 
54 
55 
56 
ib, 
58 
ib. 
59 
60 
ib. 
61 
62 
63 
64 
66 
67 
6S 
ib. 
69 
70 
71 
7% 



CONTENTS. vii 

Letter 71 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis June 6, 1793 Pa^e 73 

72 To William Hayley, Esq. June 20, 1793 ib. 

73 To the same July 7, 1793 7S 

74 To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed July 23, 1793 76 
, 75 To William Ha) ley. Esq. July 24, 1793 77 
*76 To Lady Hesketh Aug. 11,1793 78 

77 To William Hayley, Esq. Aug. 15, 1793 79 

78 To Mrs. Courteney, Aug. 20, 1793 80 

79 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Aug. 22, 1793 81 

80 To William Hayley, Esq. Aug. 27, 1793 ib. 

81 To Lady Hesketh Aug. 29, 1793 83 

82 To the Rev. Mr. Johnson Sept. 6, 1793 ib. 

83 To William Hayley, Esq. Sept. 8, 1793 85 

84 To Mrs. Courteney Sept. 16, 1793 ib. 

85 To the Rev. Mr. Johnsoi> Sept. 29, 1793 86 

86 To William Hayley, Esq. Oct. 5, 1793 87 

87 To the same Oct. 18, 1793 88 
The Author's second Visit to Weston — other Guests of Cov.-per, his 

Kinsman Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Rose; the latter commissioned by Lord 
Spencer to invite Cowper and all his Guests to Althorpe — the State of 
Mrs. Unwin's Health induces him to decline the Invitation, page 89. 
Letter 88 To Mrs. Courteney 

89 To Jeseph Hill, Esq. 

90 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 

91 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

92 To the same 

93 To William Hayley, Esq. 
Origin of Cowper's projected Poem on the four Ages of Man — his Billet 

to the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, page 95, 96. Commencement of the Poem, 
97. The Health of Cowper declines — the Incident that gave rise to 
the two last of his cheerful Letters, 98 to 100. 

Letter 94 To William Hayley, Esq. Dec. 17, 1793 100 

95 To the same Jan. 5, 1794 101 

The Author induced to visit Weston, in the severe Illness of Cov/per, by 
a friendly E.Yhortation from Mr. Greatheed, page 103. The Sufferings 
of the Invalid — the inefi'ectual Sympathy of his Friends — the Grant of 
a Pension from his Majesty to Cowper, 105 to 107. After remaining 
at Weston, under the tender Care of Lady Hesketh, till July, 1795, 
Cowper and Mrs. Umvin remove from Weston to Norfolk, under the 
Conduct of his Kinsman, Mr. Johnson — Stanzas to Mary, the last Poem 
composed by Cowper at Weston, 108, 109. Cowper resides at North- 
Tuddenham — removes to Mundsley, a Village on the Norfolk Coasts 
removes to Dereham, and thence to Dunham-Lodge, 111 to 113. Induced 
to revise his Homer, 1795 — in September visits Mundsley again — in Oc- 
tober returns to Dereham, and settles there for the Vv''inter, 114. Gra- 
dual Decline and Death of Mrs. Unv^-in, 114. Cowper's Solicitude on 
the last Morning of her Life — her Funeral in Dereham, and Tablet to 



Nov. 


4, 1793 


89 


Nov. 


5, 1793 


91 


Nov. 


24, 1793 


92 


Nov. 


29, 1793 


93 


Dec. 


8, 1793 


94 


Dec. 


8, 1793 


95 



iii CONTENTS. 

her Memory, 115. The obstinate Malady of Cowper — fruitless Endea-« 
vours to cheer his dejected Spirit — infinite Merit of Mr. Johnson, in his 
Care to mitigate the Calamity of his revered Relation — Cowper receives 
a Visit from the Dowager Lady Spencer, 115 to 118. Mr. Johnson 
reads to him his printed and his Manuscript Poems — Cowper wrjjes to 
Lady Hesketh, and receives a Visit from Sir John Throckmorton, 119. 
Finishes the Revisal of his Homer, March, 1799 — resumes and quits 
his Poem on the four Ages — composes a Latin Poem — his last original 
English Poem, the Cast-away, 119, 120. Removes to a larger House 
in Dereham — translates various Latin and Greek Verses, and some 
Fables of Gay into Latin Verse — sends an improved Version of a 
Passage in his Homer to his Friend of Eartham, 122. His Health 
becomes more impaired — receives a Visit from Mr. Rose in March- 
declines, and dies on Friday, the 25th of April — buried, on the 3d of 
May, in the Church of Dereham, 123, 124. His Character, and Re- 
marks on his Poetry, 124 to 163. Postscript, 163. 



APPENDIX. 

No. 1 Original Poems Page 165 

2 Translations of Greek Verses 174 

3 Translations from Horace and Virgil 186 

4 Translations from various Latin Poems of Vincent Bourne, 

and a few Epigrams of Owen 201 

5 Monies Glaciales, in Oceano Germanico natantes, with a 

Translation 224 

6 Verses, English and Latin, to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 227 

7 Translations from the Fables of Gay 229 

8 The Connoisseur, No. 119 233 

134 237 

138 24Q 

Motto on a Clock 245 

Conclusion 246, 247 



THE 

LIFE OF COWPER. 

PART THE THIRD. 



Xenophon. 

1 HE active and powerful mind of Cowper wanted no long inter- 
val of rest after finishing the work of five laborious years. On 
the contrary, he very soon began to feel that regular hours of 
mental exertion were essentially requisite to his comfort and wel- 
fare. 

That extraordinary proficient in the knowledge of human na- 
ture, Lord Bacon, has inserted in his list of articles conducive to 
health, (for his own use) one article, that may appear, at first 
sight, little suited to such a purpose — " heroic desires !" If we un- 
derstand by this expression what he probably intended, a constant 
inclination and care to employ our faculties fervently and steadily 
on some grand object of laudable pursuit, perhaps the whole Ma- 
teria Medica could have fiirnished him with nothing so likely to 
promote the preservation of health ; especially in a frame distin- 
guished by nerves of the most delicate and dangerous sensibility. 

Cowper was himself aware of this truth, and he was looking 
deliberately around him for some new literary object of magnitude 
and importance, when his thoughts were directed to Milton, by an 
unexpected application from the literary merchant with whom he 
had corresponded, occasionally, for some years ; and with whom 
his acquaintance, though confined to letters of business, had ri- 
pened into a cordial esteem. 

The great author of the Rambler (intimately acquainted with 
all the troubles that are too apt to attend tlie votaries of literature) 
has said, " that a bookseller is the only Maecenas of the modern 
world." Without assenting to all the eulogy and all the satire im- 
plied in this remarkable sentiment, we may take a pleasure in ob- 

VOI., II. JB 



2 LIFE OF COWPER. 

serving, that in the class of men so magnificently and sportively 
commended, there are several mdividuals, each of whom a writer 
of the most delicate manners and exalted mind may justly esteem* 
as a pleasing associate, and as a liberal friend. 

In this light CoA\'per regarded his bookseller, Mr. Johnson, to 
■whom he had literally given the two volumes of his poems, with 
that modest and generous simplicity of spirit which formed a strik- 
ing part of his character. He entertained no presumptuous ideas 
of their pecuniary value ; and when the just applause of the v/orld 
had sufficiently proved it, he nobly declined the idea of resuming 
a gift, Avhich the probity of his merchant would have allowed him 
to recall. He was, however, so pleased by this, and by subsequent 
proofs of liberality in the conduct of Mr. Johnson, that on being 
solicited by him to embark in the adventure of preparing a magni- 
ficent edition of Milton, he readily entered into the project- and 
began those admirable translations from the Latin and Italian poetry 
of Milton, which I have formerly mentioned in print, and to 
which I hope to render more justice, by a plan of devoting them 
to the purpose of raising a monument to their avithor: a plan- 
upon which I shall apply to the favour of tlie public in the close of 
these volumes. 

As it is to Milton that I am in a great measure indebted foi> 
what I must ever regard as a signal blessing, the friendship of Cow- 
per, the reader will pardon me for dwelling a little on the cir- 
cumstances that produced it : circumstances which often lead me 
to repeat those sweet verses of my friend on the casual original of 
our most valuable attachments : 

Mysterious are liis ways, whose power 
Brings foith that unexpected hour. 
When minds, that never met before, 
Shall meet, unite, and part no moi'e r 
It is th' allotment of the skies, 
The hand of the supremely Avise, 
That guides and governs our affections^ 
And plans and orders our connections. 

These charming verses strike with peculiar force on my heart,, 
when I recollect that it was an idle endeavour to make us ene- 
mies which gave rise to our intimacy, and that I was pi-ovidentially 
conducted to Weston at a season when my presence there afforded 
peculiar comfort to my affectionate friend, under the pressure of a. 
domestic affliction, which threatened to overwhelm his ver\' tea- 
tier spirits. 



LIFE OF COWPER. S 

The entreaty of many persons, whom I wished to o'jlige, had 
engaged me to write a life of Milton, before I had the slightest 
suspicion that my work could interfere with the projects of any 
man ; but I was soon surprised and concerned in hearing that I Was 
represented in a news-paper, as an antagonist of Cowper. 

I immediately wrote to him on the subject, and our correspond- 
ence soon endeared us to each other in no common degree. The 
series of his letters to me I value not only as memorials of a most 
dear and honourable fi'iendship, but as exquisite examples of epis- 
tolary excellence. My pride might assuredly be gratified by insert- 
5ng them all, as I have been requested to do, in this publication ; 
but, I trust, I am influenced l)y a proper sense of duty towards 
my dear departed friend, in withholding them, at present, from 
tlie eye of the puljlic. The truth is, I feel that the extreme sensi- 
bility of my affectionate correspondent led him, very frequently, 
to speak of me in such terms of tender partiality, that the world 
Wiust not be expected to forgive him for so over-rating even the 
merit of a friend, till that friend is sharing with him the hallowed 
rest of the grave. In the mean time my readers, I hope, will ap- 
prove my confining myself to such a selection from them, as ap- 
pears to me necessary for the completion of this narrative ; which 
I seize every opportunity of embellishing with numerous letters to 
his other correspondents. 

It is time to resume the series of such letters ; and in doing so 
I embrace, with a melancholy gratification, an opportunity of pay- 
ing tender respect to the memory of a scholar and a poet, who, in 
1791, solicited and obtained the regard of Cowper, and saw him, 
for the first time, at Eartham, in the following year. — I speak of 
the late professor of poetry, the Reverend James Hurdis ; a man 
whose death must be lamented as peculiarly unseasonable, did not 
piety suggest to the persons most deeply afflicted by a loss so little 
expected, that it is irrational and irreligious to repine at those de- 
crees of heaven which summon to early beatitude the most deserv- 
ing of its servants. As this exemplary divine was tenderly idol- 
ized by several accomplished sisters, it may be hoped that his col- 
lected works will be republished by some member of his family, 
Avith a memorial of the learned, elegant, and moral writer, adapt- 
ed to the extent and variety of his merit. My intercourse with 
him was brief indeed, but terminated with expressions of kindness, 
when every kir^d syllable derives an affecting power, from the ap- 
pi-oach of death. I had applied to him, requesting the sight of let- 
ters that I knew he had been long in the ha!)it of receiving from 
Co%vper: my application, to my surprise and concern, found him 
sinking hito a fatal illness ; but he kindly intimated to a beloved 



4 LIFE OF COWPER. 

sister a wish to comply with my request. To the fidelity of hei' 
affection towards a deserving brother I am indebted for the papers 
%vhich I wished to see ; and from which I have made such a selec- 
tion as I deem most consistent with the regard I owe to both the 
departed poets. — Their reciprocal esteem will reflect honour on 
both ; and it is particularly pleasing to observe the candid and li- 
beral spirit with which Cowper attended to the wishes and encou- 
raged the exertions of a young and modest writer, who was justly 
ambitious of his applause. 

The date of his first letter to the author of the Village Curate 
appears to claim an earlier place in this woi'kj but a variety of 
circumstances conspired to fix it here. 

LETTER L 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston, March 6, 1791. 
Sir, 

I have always entertained, and have oc- 
casionally avowed a great degree of respect for the abilities of thq 
unkno-wn author of the Village Curate — unknown at that time, but 
now well known, and not to me only, but to many. For before I 
was favoured with your obliging letter I knew your name, your 
place of abode, your profession, and that you had four sisters ; all 
which I learned neither from our bookseller, nor from any of his 
connections : you will perceive, therefore, that you are no longer 
an author incognito. The writer, indeed, of many passages that 
have fallen from your pen could not long continue so. Let genius, 
true genius, conceal itself where it may, we may say of it, as the 
young man in Terence of his beautiful mistress — ■" diu latere non 
potest J' 

I am obliged to 3-ou for your kind offers of service, and will not 
say that I shall not be troublesome to \o\\ hereafter; but at present 
I have no need to be so. I have, within these two days, given the 
very last stroke of my pen to my long translation, and what will 
l)c my next cai'eer I know not. At any rate, we shall not, I hope, 
liereafter be known to each other as poets only ; for your writings 
liave made me ambitious of a neai'er approach to you. Your door, 
however, ■will never be opened to me. My fate and fortune have 
combined with natural disposition, to draw a circle round me 
Avhich I cannot pass ; nor have I been more than thirteen miles 
fi'om home these twenty years, and so far very seldom. But you 
are a younger man, scA therefore may not be quite so immoveable: 
in which case, sliculd you choose at any time to move Weston- 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 5 

ward, you will always find me happy to receive you. And in the 
mean time I remain, with much respect, j'our most obedient ser- 
vant, critic, and friend, 

W. C. 
P. S. I wish, to know what you mean to do with Sir Thomas.* 
For though I expressed doubts about his theatrical possibilities, I 
think him a very respectable person, and, with some improvement, 
well worthy of being introduced to the public. 

LETTER n. 

To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

JFesion, June 13, JlTSl. 
My dear Sir, 

I ought to ha^'e thanked you for your 
agreeable and entertaining letter much sooner ; but I have many 
correspondents who will not be said, nay ; and have been obliged, 
of late, to give my last attentions to Homer : the very last indeed, 
for jesterday I dispatched to town, after re^ ising them carefullv, 
the proof-sheets of subscribers' names ; among which I took special 
notice of yours, and am much obliged to you for it. We have con- 
trived, or rather my bookseller and printer have contrived, (for 
they have never waited a moment for me) to publish as critically 
^t the wrong time, as if my whole interest and success h;id de- 
pended on it. March, April, and May, said Johnson to me in a 
letter that I recei\ed from him in February, are the best months 
for publication. Therefore^ now it is determined that Homer shall 
come out on the first of July, that is to say, exactly at the moment 
■when, except a few lawyers, not a creature will be left in town 
who will ever care one farthing about him. To which of these two 
friends of mine I am indebted for this management, I know not. 
It does wot please, but I would be a philosopher as well as a poet, 
and therefore make no complaint or gruml)le at all about it. You, 
I presume, have had dealings with them both — how did they ma- 
nage for you ? And if as they have for me, how did yow behave under 
it? Some who love me complain that I am too passive; and I 
should be glad of an oppoi-tunity to justify myself \^^ your ex- 
ample. The fact is, should I thunder ever so loud, no efforts of 
that sort will avail me now ; thei'efore, like a good economist of 
my bolts, I choose to reserve them for more profitable occasions. 

I am glad to find that your amusements have been so similar to 
jujne, for in this instance, too, I seemed to ha\e need of somebody t» 

* Sir Thomas Muie, a Tjajerfv. 



6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

keep me in countenance, especially in my attention and attach- 
ment to animals. All the notice that we lords of the creation 
vouchsafe to bestow on the creatures, is generally to abuse them ; 
it is well, therefore, that here and there a man should be found a 
little womanish, or perhaps a little childish in this matter, who 
"will make some amends, by kissing and coaxing, and laying thenl 
in one's bosom. You remember the little ewe lamb mentioned by 
the Prophet Nathan : the Prophet, pei'haps, invented the tale for 
the sake of its application to David's conscience ; but it is more 
probable that God inspired him with it for that purpose. If he 
(lid, it amounts to a proof that he does not overlook, but, on the 
contrary, much notices such little partialities and kindnesses to his 
(lujyib creatures, as we, because we articulate, are pleased to call 
them. 

Your sisters are fitter to judge than I, whether assembl)--rooms 
are the places, of all others, in which the ladies may be studied to 
most advantage. I am an old fellow, but I had once my dancing 
days, as you have now ; yet I could never find that I learned half 
so much of a woman's real character by dancing with her, as by 
conversing with her at home, v»?here I could ol^serve her behaviour 
at the table, at the fire-side, and in all the trying circumstances 
of domestic life. We are all good when we are pleased, but she 
is the good woman who wants not a fiddle to sweeten her. If I am 
■wrong, the young ladies will set me right : in the mean time I will 
not teaze you with graver arguments on the subject, especially as 
1 have a hope, that years, and the study of the scripture, and His 
Spirit whose word it is, will, in due time, bring you to my way 
of thinking. I am not one of those sages who require that young 
men should be as old as themselves, before they have had time 
to be so. 

^Vith my love to your fair sisters, I remain, dear Sir, yours 
truly, W. C. 



LETTER III. 

To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston^ August 9, llTQl. 

My d£ar Sir, 

I never make a correspondent wait for 
an answer through idleness or want of proper respect for him; 
but if I am silent, it is because I am busy, or not well, or because 
I St ly till something occur that may make my letter at least a little 
better than mere blank paper. I therefore write speedily in reply 



LIFE OF COWPER. 7 

to yours, being, at present, neither much occupied, nor at uU in- 
disposed, nor forbidden by a dearth of materials. 

I wish always, when I have a new piece in hand, to be as secret 
as you, and there was a time when I could !je so. Then I lived 
the life of a solitary, was not visited l^y a single neighbour, because 
I had none with wliom I could associate ; nor e\ er had an inmate. 
This was when I dwelt at Olney ; but since I have removed to 
Weston the case is different. Here I am visited by all around me, 
and study in a room exposed to all mannei' of uiroads» It is on the 
ground floor, the room in which we dine, and in which I am sure 
to be found by all who seek me. They find me generally at my 
desk, and with my work, whatever it be, before me, unless per- 
haps I have conjured it into its hiding-place before they have had 
time to enter. This, however, is not always the case, and, con- 
sequently, sooner or later, I cannot fail to be detected. Possibly 
you, who, I suppose, have a snug study, would find it impracti- 
cable to attend to any thing closely in an apartment exposed as 
mine ; but use has made it familiar to me, and so familiar, that 
rieither servants going and coming disconcert me ; nor even if a 
lady, with an oblique glance of her eye, catches two or thi-ee lines, 
of my MSS. do I feel myself inclined to blush, tliough naturally 
the sliyest of mankind. 

You did well, I believe, to cashier the subject of which 3-ou give 
me a recital. It certainly wants these agreements which are ne- 
cessary to the success of any .sulyect in verse. It is a curious story, 
and so far as the poor young lady was concerned, a ver)' affecting; 
one ; but there is a coarseness in the character of the hero that 
would have spoiled all. In fact, I find it myself a much easier 
matter to write than to get a convenient theme to write on. 

I am obliged to you for comparing me, as you go, both Avith Pope 
and with Homer. It is impossible, in any other way of manage- 
ment, to know whether the translation be well executed or not, and 
if well, in what degree. It was in the course of such a process 
that I first became dissatisfied with Pope. More than thirty years 
since, and when I was a young templar, I accompanied him with 
his original, line by line, through both poems. A fellow student 
of mine, a person of fine classic taste, joined himself with me in 
the lal)our. We were neither of us, as you may imagine, very 
diligent in our proper business. 

I shall be glad if my Reviewers, whosoever they may be, will be 
at the pains to read me as you do ; I want no praise that I am not 
ejititled to, but of that to which 1 am entitled I should be loth to 
lose a little, having worked hard to earn it. 

I would licurti]}- second the Bishop of Salisbury, in rccommer.d- 



c 



8 LIFE OF COWPER. 

ing to you a close pursuit of youi' Hebrew studies, were it not that 
I wish you to publish what I may understand. Do both, and I 
shall be satisfied. 

Your remarks, if I may but receive them soon enough to serv 
me in case of a new edition, vnW be extremely welcome, 

w. c. 



LETTER IV. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, August 9, \79U 
My dearest Johnny, 

The little that I have heard about Ho- 
mer myself has been equally, or more flattering than Dr. - 's 
intelligence, so that I have good reason to hope that I have not 
studied the old Grecian, and how to dress him, so long and so in- 
tensely to no purpose. At present I am idle, both on accoimt of 
my eyes, and because I know not to what to attach myself in par- 
ticular. Many different plans and projects are recommended to 
me. Some call aloud for original verse, others for more translation, 
and others for other things. Providence, I hope, will direct me ia 
my choice, for other guide \ have none, nor wish for anotlier. 
God bless you, my dearest Johnny. 

W. C. 



LETTER V. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge, Sept. 14, 1791. 
My dear Friend, 

WTioever reviews me will, in fact, have 
a laborious task of it, in the performance of which he ought to 
move leisurely, and to exercise much critical discernment. In the 
mean time, my courage is kept up by the arrival of such testimo- 
nies in my favour, as give me the greatest pleasure ; coming 
from quarters the most respectable. I have reason, thei'efore, to 
hope, that our periodical judges will not be very adverse to me, 
and that perhaps they may even favour me. If one man of taste 
and letters is pleased, another man, so qualified, can hai'dly be dis- 
pleased ; and if critics of a different description grumble, they 
will not, however, materially hurt me. 

You, who know how necessary it is to me to be employed, will 
be glad to hear that I have been called to a new literary engage- 
ment, and that I have not l•cfu^;ed it. A Milton that is to rival. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 9 

and, if possible, to exceed in splendoui' Boydell's Shakspeai*e, is 
in contemplation, and I am in the editor's office. Fuseli is the 
painter. My business will be to select notes from others, and 
to write original notes ; to translate the Latin and Italian poems, 
and to give a correct text. I shall have years allowed me to do 
it in4 

W. C. 



LETTER VL 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, Oct. 31, 179U 
My dear Johnny, 

Your kind and affectionate letter well 
deserves my thanks, and should have had them long ago, had I 
not been obliged lately to give my attention to a mountain of un- 
answered letters, which I have just now reduced to a mole-hill: 
yours lay at the bottom, and t have at last worked my way down 
to it. 

It gives me great pleasure that you have found a house to your 
minds. May you all three be happier in it than the happiest that 
ever occupied it before you ! But my chief delight of all is to learn 
that you and Kitty are so completely cured of your long and 
threatening maladies. I always thought highly of Dr. Kerr, 
but his extraordinary success in your two instances has even in- 
spired me with an affection for him. 

My eyes are much better than when I wrote last, though seldom 
perfectly well many days together. At this season of the year I 
catch perpetual colds, and shall continue to do so till I have got the 
better of that tenderness of habit with which the summer never, 
fails to affect me. 

I am glad that you have heard well of my work in your country." 
Sufficient proofs have reached me, from various quarters, that I 
ha\e not ploughed the field of Troy in vain. 

Were you here, I would gratify you with an enumeration of 
particulars ; but since you are not, it must content you to be told 
that I have every reason to be satisfied. 

Mrs. Unwin, I think, in her letter to cousm Balls, made men- 
tion of my new engagement. I have just entered on it, and there- 
fore can, at present, say little about it. 

It is a very creditable one in itself, and may I but acquit myself 
of it with sufficiency, it will do me honour. The commentator's 
part, however, is a new one to me, and one that I little tliought to 
appear in. 

VOL. n. c 



iO LIFE OF COWPER. 

Remember your promise that I shall see you in the spring. 
The Hall has been full of company ever since you went, and aS 
present my Catharina is there singing and playing like an angel. 

W. C. 



LETTER Vn. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Xqv. 14, ir9U 
My dear Friend, 

I have waited and wished for your opi- 
nion with the feelings that belong to the value I have for it, and am 
veiy happy to find it so favourable. In my table-drawer I treasure 
up a bundle of suffrages, sent me by those of whose approbation I 
was most ambitious, and shall presently insert yours among them. 

I know not v/hy we should quarrel with compound epithets : it 
is certain, at least, they are as agreeable to the genius of our lan- 
guage as to that of the Greek, which is sufl&ciently proved by 
their being admitted into our common and colloquial dialect. 
Black-eyed, nut-brown, crook-shank'd, hump-back'd, are all com- 
poimd epithets, and, together with a thousand other such, are used 
continually, even by those who profess a dislike to such combina- 
tions in poetry. Why, then, do they treat with so much familiarity 
a thuig that they say disgusts them ? I doubt if they could give 
this question a reasonable answer ; unless they should answer it by 
confessing themselves unreasojiable. 

I have made a considerable progress in the translation of Mil- 
ton's Latin poems. I give them, as opportunity offers, all the va- 
riety of measure that I can. Some I render in heroic rhyme, 
some in stanzas, some in seven, and some in eight syllable mea- 
sure, and some in blank verse. They will altogether, I hope, 
make an agreeable miscellany for the English reader. They are 
certainly good in themselves, and cannot fail to please, but by the 
fault of their translator. 

W. C. 



LETTER VIII. 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston, Dec. 10, 1791. 
Mv DEAR Sir, 

I am obliged to you for wishing that I 
were employed in some original work rather than in translation.. 
To tell you the truth, I am of your mind ; and unless I could find 



LIFE OF COWPER. II 

cinother Homer, I shall promise, I believe, and vow, -when I have 
tione with Milton, never to translate again. But my veneration 
for our great countryman is equal to what I feel for the Grecian ; 
and, consequently, I am happ)-, and feel myself honourably em- 
ployed whatever I do for Milton. I am now translating his Efii- 
tafihium Damonis^ a pastoral, in my judgment, equal to any of 
Virgil's Bucolics, but of which Dr. Johnson (so it pleased him) 
speaks, as I remembei*, contemptuously. But he who never saw 
any beauty in a niral scene was not likely to have much taste for 
a pastoral. Li pace quiescat. 

I v/as charmed with your friendly oifer to be my advocate with 
the public : should I want one, I know not where I could find a 
better. , The reviewer in the Gentleman's Magazine grows more 
and more civil. Should he continue to sweeten at this rate, as he 
proceeds, I know not what will become of all the little modesty I 
Iiave left. I have availed myself of some of his strictures, for I 
^ish to learn from every body. W. C. 



LETTER LX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, Dec. 21, 1791. 
My dear Friend, 

It grieves me, after havyig indulged a 
little hope that I might see you in the holidays, to be obliged to 
disappoint mj self. The occasion, too, is such as will ensure me your 
s\mpathj-. 

On Saturday last, while I was at my desk near the window, 
and Mrs. Unwin at the fire-side opposite to it, I heard her sud- 
denly exclaim, " Oh! Mr. Cowper, don't let me fall'" I turned 
and saw her actually falling, together with her chair, and started 
to her side just in time to prevent her. She was seized with a vio- 
lent giddiness, which lasted, though with some abatement, the whole 
day, and was attended too with some other very, very alarming 
symptoms. At present, however, she is relieved from the vertigo, 
and seems in all respects better. 

She has been my faithful and affectionate nurse for many years, 
and consequently has a claim on all my attentions. She has them, 
and will have them as long as she wants them, which will proba- 
bly be, at the best, a considerable time to come. I feel the shock, 
as you may suppose, in every nerve. God grant that there may 
be no repetition of it. Another sucli a stroke upon her would, I 
tliink, overset me completely ; but at present I hold up bravely. 

W. C. 



la LIFE OF COWPER'. 



LETTER X. 

To tlie Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston^ Feb, 21, 1792. 
My dear Sir, 

My obligations to you, on the score of your 
kind and friendly remarks, demanded from me a much more ex. 
peditious acknowledgment of the numerous pacquets that con- 
tained them ; but I have been hindered by many causes, each of 
which you would admit as a sufficient apology, but none of which 
I will mention, lest I should give too much of my paper to the sub- 
ject. My acknowledgments are likewise due to your fair sister, 
who has transcribed so many sheets in so neat a hand, and with so 
much accuracy. 

At present I have no leisure for Homer, but shall certainly find 
leisure to examine him, with a reference to your strictures, before 
I send him a second time to the printer. This I am at present un- 
willing to do, choosing rather to wait, if that may be, till I shall 
have undergone the discipline of all the reviewers ; none of whom 
have yet taken me in hand, the Gentleman's Magazine excepted. 
By several of his remarks I have been benefited, and shall no doubt 
be benefited by the remarks of all, 

Milton at present engrosses me altogether. His Latin pieces I 
have translated, and have begun with the Italian. These are few, 
and will not detain me long. I shall then proceed immediately to 
deliberate upon, and to settle the plan of my commentary, which 
I have hitherto had but little time to consider. I look forward to 
it, for this reason, with some anxiety. I trust, at least, that this 
anxiety will cease, when I have once satisfied myself about the best 
manner of conducting it. But, after all, I seem to fear more the 
labour to which it calls me, than any great difficulty with which 
it is likely to be attended. To the labours of versifying I have no 
objection, but to the labours of criticism I am new, and apprehend 
that I shall find them wearisome. Should that be the case, I shall 
be dull, and must be contented to share the censure of being so 
witi^, almost all the coinmentators that have ever existed. 

I have expected, but not wondered, that I have not received Sir 
Thomas More, and the other MSS. you promised me ; because 
my silence has been such, considering how loudly I was called upon 
to write, that you must have concluded me either dead or djang, 
and did not choose, perhaps, to trust them to executors. 

W. C 



LIFE OF COWPER. 13 

LETTER XI. 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 
Dear Sir, Weston^ March 2, 1792. 

I have this moment finished a compari- 
son of your remai'ks with my text, and feel so sensibly my ob- 
ligations to your great accuracy and kindness, that I cannot deny 
myself the pleasure of expressing them immediately. I only wish 
that, instead of revising the two first books of the Iliad, you could 
have found leisure to revise the whole two poems, sensible how 
much my work would have benefited. 

I have not always adopted your lines, though often, perhaps, at 
least, as good as my own ■ because there will and must be dissimi- 
larity of manner between two so accustomed to the pen as we are. 
But I have left few passages go unamended which you seemed to 
think exceptionable ; and this not at all from complaisance : for in 
such a cause I would not sacrifice an iota on that principle, but on 
clear conviction. 

I have as yet heard nothing from Johnson about the two MSS. 
you announce, but feel ashamed that I should want your letter to 
remind me of your obliging offer to inscribe Sir Thomas More to 
me, should you resolve to publish him. Of my consent to such a 
measure you need not doubt. I am covetous of respect and honour 
from all such as you. 

Tame hare, at present, I have none. But to inake amends, I 
have a beautiful little spaniel called Beau, to whom I will give the 
kiss your sister Sally intended for the former. Unless she should 
command me to bestow it elsewhere, it shall attend on her dii-ec- 
tions. 

I am going to take a last dinner with a most agreeable family, 
who have been my only neighbours ever since I ha\e lived at 
Weston. On Monday they go to London, and in the summer to an 
estate in Oxfordshire, which is to be their home in future. The 
occasion is not at all a pleasant one to me, nor does it leave me 
spirits to add moi-e than that I am, dear Sir, most trul} yours, 

W. C. 



LETTER Xn. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, March 11, 1792. 
My dearest Johxny, 

You talk of primroses that you pullod on 
Candlemas day; but what think you of mc, who heard a Night- 



14 LIFE OF COWPER. 

ingale on New-year's day? Perhaps I am the only man in Eng- 
land who can boast of such good foi-tune : good, indeed ; for if it 
was at all an omen, it could not be an unfavourable one. The 
winter, however, is now making himself amends, and seems the 
more peevish for having been encroached on at so undue a season. 
Nothing less than a large slice out of the spring will satisfy him. 

Lady Hesketh left us yesterday. She intended, indeed, to have 
left us four days sooner : but in the evening before the day fixed 
for her departure, snow enough fell to occasion just so much delay 
of it. 

We have faint hopes that in the month of May we shall see 
her again. I know that you have had a letter from her, and you 
will no doubt have the grace not to make her wait long for an 
answer. 

We expect Mr. Rose on Tuesday ; but he stays with us only 
till the Saturday following. With him I shall have some confer- 
ences on the subject of Homer, respecting a new edition I mean, 
and some perhaps on the subject of Milton ; on him I have not yet 
begun to comment, or even fix the time when I shall. 

Forget not your promised visit I 

W. C* 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE, 

Which the Author heard smg on JX'J'W- Year's Day^ 1792, 

Whence is it, that, amaz'd, I hear, 

Fi-om yonder wither'd spray, 
This foremost morn of all the year, ^ 

The melody of May ? 

And why, since thousands would be proud 

Of such a favour shown. 
Am I selected from the crowd, 

To .witness it alone ? 

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 

For that I also long 
Have practis'd in the groves like thee, ' 

Though not like thee in song? 



* Note hv/hsEiiifny. — I annex to this letter the stanzas that Co'.vper composed on th: 
wonderful incident h- re laeiuioned. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 15 

Or sing'st thou rather under force 

Of some divine command, 
Commission'd to presage a course 

Of happier days at hand? 

Thrice welcome, then I for many a long 

And joyous year have I, 
As thou to-day, put forth my song 

Beneath a wintry sky. 

But thee no wintrj' skies can harm, 

\Mio only need'st to sing, 
To make ev'n January charm, 

And ev'ry season Spring. 

LETTER XIIL 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston, March 23, ir92. 
Dear Sir, 

I have read your play carefully, and with 
great pleasure : it seems now to be a performance that cannot fail 
to do you much credit. Yet, unless my memory deceives me, the 
scene between Cecilia and Heron in the garden has lost something 
that pleased me much when I saw it first ; and I am not sure 
that you have not likewise obliterated an account of Sir Thomas's 
execution, that I found very pathetic. It would be strange if, in 
these two particulars, I should seem to miss what never existed : 
you will presently know whether I am as good at remembering 
what I never sav/, as I am at forgetting what I have seen. But it 
I am right, I cannot help recommending the omitted passages to 
your re -consideration. If the play were designed for representa- 
tion, I should be apt to think Cecilia's first speech rather too long, 
and should prefer to have it broken into dialogue, by an interposi- 
tion now and then from one of her sisters. But since it is designed, 
as I understand, for the closet only, that objection seems of no 
miportance ; at no rate, however, would I expunge it, because it 
is both pretti'y imagined, and elegantly written. 

I have read your ciirnory i-emarks^ and am much pleased both 
with the style and the argument. Whether the latter be new or 
not I am not competent to judge : if it be, you are entitled to much 
praise for the invention of it. Where other data are wanting to 
ascertain the time when an author of many pieces wrote each in 
particular, there can be no better criterion by which to determine 



16 LIFE OF COWPER. 

the point, than the more or less proficiency manifested m the 
composition. Of this proficiency, where it appears, and of those 
plays in which it appears not, you seem to me to have judged well 
and truly; and, consequently, I approve of your arrangement. 

I attended, as you desired me, in reading the character of Ceci- 
lia, to the hint you gave me concerning your sister Sally, and give 
you joy of such a sister. This, however, not exclusively of the rest, 
for though they may not all be Cecilias, I have a strong persuasioa 
that they are all very amiable, 

W. C. 



LETTER XIV. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 25, 1792* 

My DEAREST COZ. 

Mr. Rose's longer stay than he at first 
intended was the occasion of the longer delay of my answer ta 
your note, as you m.ay both have perceived by the date thereof, and. 
learned from his information. It was a daily trouble to me to 
see it lying in the window-seat, while I knew you were in expecta- 
tion of its arrival. By this time I presume you have seen him, 
and have seen likewise Mr. Hayley's friendly letter and compli- 
mentary sonnet, as well as the letter of tlie honest Quaker ; all 
of which, at least the two former, I shall be glad to receive again 
at a fair opportunity. Mr. Hayley's letter slept six weeks in 
Johnson's custody. It was necessary I should answer it without 
delay, and accordingly I answered it the very evening on which I 
received it, giving him to understand, among other things, how 
much vexation the bookseller's folly had cost me, who had detained 
it so long; especially on account of the distress that I know it must 
have occasioned to him also. From his reply, which the return 
of the post brought me, I learn that, in the long interval of my 
non-correspondence, he had suffered anxiety and mortification 
enough ; so much that I dare say he had made twenty vows never 
to hazard again either letter or compliment to an unknown author* 
What, indeed, could he imagine less, than that I meant, by such an 
obstinate silence, to tell him that I valued neither him nor his 
praises, nor his proffered friendship ; in short, that I considered 
him as a rival, and therefore, like a true author, hated and despised 
him. He is now, hoAvever, convinced that I love him, as indeed I 
do ; and I account him the chief acquisition that my own verse 
has ever procured me. Brute should I be if I did not, for he 
promises me every assistance in his power. 



LIFE OF COLTER- 17 

T have likewise a very pleasing letter from Mr. Park, Triiich I 
•wish you were here to read ; and a very pleasing poem tliat came 
inclosed in it for my revisal, written when he was only twent>- years 
of age, yet wonderfully well written, tliough wanting some correc- 
tion. 

To INIr. Hurdis I return Sir Thomas More to-morrow, having 
revised it a second time. He is now a very respectable figure, 
and will do my fr;end, who gives him to the public this spring, 

considerable credit. 

W. C. 



LETTER XX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Marc/i 30, 1792. 
My mornings, ever since you went, havd 
been given to my correspondents: this morning I have already 
written a long letter to Mr. Park, giving my opinion of his poemj 
which is a favourable one. I forget whether I showed it to you 
•when you were here, and even whether I had then received it. 
He has genius and delicate taste ; and if he were not an engraver, 
might be one of our first hands in poetrv* 

Wi c. 

LETTER. XVL 
to SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, A/irilof 1?'92. 
You talk, my dear friend, as John Bun- 
Van says, like one who has the egg-shell still upon his head. You 
talk of the mighty favours that you have received from me, and for- 
get entirely those for which I am indebted to you ; but though }ou 
ibrgct them, I shall not, nor ever think that I have requited you, 
so long as any opportunity presents itself of rendering you the 
Smallest service : small, indeed, is all that I can ever hope to 
render. 

You now perceive, and sensibly, that not without reason I com- 
plained, as I used to do, of those tiresome rogues the printers. Bless 
yourself that you have not two thick quartos to bring forth, as I 
had. My vexation was always much increased by this reflection ; 
they are every day, and all day long, employed in printing for 
somebody, and why not for me ? This was adding mortification 
to disappointment, so that I often lost all patience. 

The suffrage of Doctor Robertson makes more than amends 
for the scurvy jest passed upon me by the wag unknown. I VQ-> 

VOL. II. D 



18 LIFE OF COWPER. 

gard him not; nor, except for about two moments after I first 
heard of his doings, have I ever regarded him. I have somewhere 
a secret enemy ; I know not for what cause he should be so ; but 
he, I imagine, supposes that he has a cause : it is well, however, 
to have but one ; and I will take all the care I can not to increase 
the number. 

I hive begun my notes, and am playing the commentator man- 
fully. The worst of it is that I am anticipated in almost all my 
opportunities to shine by those who have gone before me. 

W. C. 



LETTER XVII. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, April 6, 1792.- 
My DEAR Friend, 

God grant that this friendship of ours 
may be a comfort to us all the rest of our days : in a world where 
true friendships are rarities, and especially where suddenly formed, 
they are apt soon to terminate. But, as I said before, I feel a dis- 
position of heart toward you, tliat I never felt for one whom I had 
never seen ; and that shall prove itself, I trust, in the event, a 
propitious omen. 

******************** **** 

Horace says somewhere, though I may quote it amiss, perhaps, 
for I have a terrible memory, 

Utnimqiie nostrum incredibili modo 
Consentit astrum, 

* * * Our stars co?ise7it, at least have had an influence somewhat 
similar in another and more important article. * * * 

It gives me the sincerest pleasure that I may hope to see you 
at Weston ; for as to any migrations of mine, they must, I fear, 
notwithstanding the joy I should feel in being a guest of yours, be 
still considered in the light of impossibilities. Come then, my 
friend, and be as welcome, as the country people say here, as tlie 
flowers in May. I am happy, as I say, in the expectation ; but 
the fear, or rathe the consciousness that I shall not answer on a 
nearer view, makes it a trembling kind of happiness, and a 
doubtful. 

After that privacy which I have mentioned above, I went to 
Huntingdon: scoa after my arrival there I took up my quarters 



LIFE OF COWPER. 19 

at the house of the Reverend Mr. Unwin ; I lived with him while 
he lived, and ever since his death have lived with his widow. 
Her, therefore, you will find mistress of the house ; and I jud^^e of 
you amiss, or you will find her just such as you would wish. 
To me she has been often a nurse, and invariably the kindest 
friend, through a thou'iand adversities that I have had to grapple 
■with in the course of almost thirty yeiirs. I thought it better to 
introduce her to you thus, than to present her to you at your com- 
ing, quite a stranger. 

Bring with you any books that you think may be useful to my 
commentatorship, for, with you for an interpreter, I shall be 
afraid of none of them. And, in truth, if you think that you shall 
•want them, ycu must bring bodks for your own use also ; for they 
are an article with which I am heinomly un/irovidtd, being much 
in the condition of the man whose library Pope describes, as 

No mighty store 1 
His own works neatly bound, and little more I 

You shall know how this has come to pass hereafter. 

Tell me, my friend, are your letters in your own hand writing? 
If so, I am in pain for your eyes, lest, by such frequent demands 
upon them, I should hurt them. I had rather write you three let- 
ters for one, much as I prize your letters, than (hat should hap- 
pen. And now, for the present, adieu — I am going to accompany 
Milton into the lake of fire and brimstone, having just begun my 
annotations. W. C. 



LETTER XVnL 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston, JprilS, 1792. 
My dear Sir, 

Your entertaining and pleasant letter, re- 
sembling in that respect, all that I receive from you, deserved a 
more expeditious answer, and should have had what it so well de- 
served, had it not reached me at a time when, deeply in debt 
to all my correspondents, I had letters to write without num- 
ber ; like autumnal leaves that strew the brooks — in Vallombrosa ; 
the unanswered farrago lay before me. If I quote at all, you must 
expect me henceforth to quote none but Milton, since, for a long 
time to come, I shall be occupied with him only. 

I was much pleased with the extract you gave me from your 
Bister Eliza's letter : she v.-rites very elegantly, and (if I might say 



20 LIFE OF COWPER. 

it mtliout seeming to flatter you) I should say much in the maimer 
of h«r brother. It is well for your sister Sally, that gloomy Dis is 
already a married man; else, perhaps, finding her, as he found 
Proserpine, scudyiag Botany in the fields, he might transport her 
to his ov/n flowerless abode, where all her hopes of improvement 
in that science womld be at an end for ever. 

\A'Tiat letter of the 10th of December is that which you say you 
have not yet answered ? Consider, it is April now, and I never re- 
member any thing that I write half so long. But pei'haps it relates 
to Calchas, for I do remember that you have not yet furnished me 
•with the secret history of him and his family, which I demanded 
from you. Adieu. Yours most sincerely, 

W. C. 

i rejoice that you are so well with the learned Bishop of Sarum, 
and well remember how he fei-reted the vermin Lauder out of ail 
his hidings, when I was a boy at Westminster. 

I have not yet studied with your last remarks before me, but 
hope soon to find an opportunity. 



LETTER XIX. 
To Lady THROCKMORTON. 
My dear Lady Frog, Jpril 16, 17'92. 

I thank you for your letter, as sweet as 
it was short, and as sweet as good news could make it. You en- 
courage a hope that has made me happy ever since I have enter- 
tained it ; and if my wishes can hasten the event, it will not b^ 
long suspended. As to your jealousy, I mind it not, or only to be 
pleased with it. I shall say no more on the subject at present than 
this, that of all ladies living, a certain lady, whom I need not 
name, would be the lady of my choice for a certain gentleman, 
ly.ere the whole sex admitted to my election. 

What a delightful anecdote is that which you tell me of a young 
lady detected in the very act of stealing our Catharina's praises ? Is 
it possible tl^at she can survive the shame, the mortification of 
such a discoveiy ' Can she ever see the same company again, or 
any company that she can suppose, by the remotest possibility, may 
ha\e heard the tidings? If she can, she must have an assurance 
equal to her vanity. A lady in London stole my song on the Broken 
Rose, or rather would havs stolen and have passed it for her own. 
But she, too, was unfortunate in her attempt ; for there happened to 
be a female cousin of niine in company, who knew that I had 
jvritten it. It is very flattering to a poet's pride, that the ladies 
sliould thus hazard every thing for the sake of appropriating 



LIFE OF COWPER. 21 

his verses. I may say with Milton, " that I am fallen on evil 
tongues and evil days," being not only plundered of that which 
belongs to me, but being charged with that which does not. Thus 
it seems (and I have learned it from more quarters than one) that 
a report is, and has been somewhat current in this and the neigh- 
bouring counties, that though I have given myself the air of de- 
claiming against the slave trade in the Task, I am, in realit}'-, a 
friend to it ; and last night I received a letter from Joe Rye, to in- 
form me that I have been much traduced and calumniated on this 
account. Not knowing how I could better, or more effectually re- 
fute the scandal, I have this morning sent a copy to the Northamp- 
ton paper, prefaced by a shoi-t letter to the printer, specifying the 
occasion. The verses are in honour of Mr. W'ilberforce, and suf- 
ficiently expressive of my present sentiments on the subject. Yon 
are a wicked fair one for disappointing us of our expected visit, 
and therefore out of mere spite I will not insert them. I have 
been very ill these ten days, and for the same spite's sake will 
not tell you Avhat has ailed me. But lest you should die of a fright, 
I will have the mercy to tell jou that I am recovering. 

Mrs. G and her little ones are gone, but your brother is 

still here. He told me that he had some expectations of Sir John 
at Weston ; if he comes, I shall most heartily rejoice once mor« 
to see him at a table so many j^ears his own.* W. C. 



SONNET, 
To WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, Esquire. 

Thy country, Wilbei'force, with just disdain, 
Hears thee, by cruel men and impious call'd 
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd 
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain. 
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, 
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain ! 
Thou hast achiev'd a part ; hast gain'd the ear 
Of Britain's Senate to thy glorious cause : 
Hope smiles, Joy springs, and though cold Caution pause 
And weave delay, the better hour is near, 
That shall remunerate tliy toils severe 
By peace for Afrlc, fenc'd with British laws. 
Enjoy what thou liast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above ! 

• Xole by Ih: l.Mtor. — The followinj; Sonnet, noi prinieJ in the collected woiks of Cowptr^ 
Xj the pocin that lie alluded to in tV.v. Icttr-r. 



22 LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER XX. 

To Ladv HESKETH. 

The Lodgey May S, 1792, 
A January Storm, 

Mv DEAREST COZ. 

I rejoice, as thou reasonably svjpposest 
me to do, in the matrimonial news communicated in your last. 
Not that it was altogether news to me, for twice I had received 
broad hints of it from Lady Frog, by letter, and several times viva 
•voce while she was here. But she enjoined rne secrecy as well as 
7/OM, and you know that all secrets are safe with me ; safer far 
than the winds in the bags of .^olus. I know not, in fact, the lady 
■rt^hom it would give me more pleasure to call Mrs. Courtney, than 
the lady in question ; partly because I know her, but especially be- 
cause I know her to be all that I can wish in a neighbour. 

I have often observed that there is a regular alternation of good 
and evil in the lot of men, so that a favourable incident may be 
considered as the harbinger of an unfavourable one, and vice versa* 
Dr. Madan's experience witnesses the truth of this observation. 
One day he gets a broken head, and the next a mitre to heal it. I 
rejoice that he has met with so effectual a cure, though my joy is 
net unmingled with concern ; for till now I had some hope of see- 
ing him ; but since I live in the north, and his episcopal call is in 
the west, that is a gratification, I suppose, which I must no longer 
look for. 

My sonnet, which I sent you, was printed in the Northampton 
paper last week ; and this week it produced me a complimentary 
one in the same paper, which served to convince me, at least, by 
the matter of it, that my own was not published without occasion, 
and that it had answered its purpose. 

My correspondence with Haxley pi'oceeds briskly, and is very 
affeclionate on both sides. I expect him here in about a fortnight, 
and wish heartily, with Mrs. Unwin, that you would give him a 
meeting. I have promised him, indeed, that he shall find us alone, 
but you are one of the family. 

I wish much to print the following lines in one of the daily pa- 
pers. Lord S's. vindication of the poor culprit, in the affair of 
Cheit-sing, has confirmed me in the belief that he has been injuri- 
ously treated, and I think it an act merely of justice to take a little 
notice of him. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 23 

To WARREN HASTINGS, Esquire. 

By an old School-fellow of his at Westminster, 

Hastings ! I knew thee young, and of a mind, 
While young, humane, conversable and kind ; 
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, 
JVow grown a villain, and the nvorst of men : 
But rather seme suspect, who have oppress'd 
And worried thee, as not themselves the best. 

If you will take the pains to send them to thy news-monger, I 
hope thou wilt do well. Adieu. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXI. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

May 20, 1792* 
My dearest of all Johnnys, 

I am not sorry that your ordination is 
postponed. A year's learning and wisdom, added to your present 
stock, will not be more than enough to satisfy the demands of your 
ftinction. Neither am I sony that you find it difficult to fix your 
thoughts to the serious point at all times. It proves, at least, that 
you attempt and wish to do it; and these are good symptoms,- 
Woe to those who enter cti the ministry of the gospel without hav- 
ing previously asked, at least, from God, a mind and spirit suited 
to their occupation, and whose experience never differs from itself; 
because they are always alike vain, light, and inconsiderate. It 
is, tlierefore, matter of great joy to me to hear you complain of 
levity, and such it is to Mrs. Unwin. She is, I thank God, toler- 
ably well, and loves you. As to the time of your journey hither, 
the sooner after June the better ; till then we shall have company, 

I forget not my debts to your dear sister, and your aunt Balls. 
Greet them both with a brother's kiss, and place it to my account. 
I will write to them when Milton, and a thousand other engage- 
ments, will give me leave. Mr. Hayley is here on a visit. We 
have formed a friendship that, I trust, will last for life, and render 
us an edifying example to all future poets. 

Adieu : lose no time in coming after the time mentioned. 

W. C. 



U LTFE Of COWPER. 

Tlie reader is informed, by the close of the last letter, that I 
was, at this time, the guest of Cowper. Our meeting, so singularly- 
produced, was a source of reciprocal delight: we looked cheerfully- 
forward to the unclouded enjoyment of many social and literary- 
hours. 

My host, though now in his sixty -first year, appeared as happily 
exempt from all the infirmities of advanced life, as friendship 
could wish him to be; and his more elderly companion, not materi- 
ally oppressed by the age of seventy-two, discovered a benevolent 
alertness of character, that seemed to promise a continuance of 
their domestic comfort. Their reception of me was kindness 
itself. I was enchanted to find that the manners and conversation 
of Cowper resembled his poetry, charming by unafFecte,d elegai^ce 
and the graces of a benevolent spirit,' I looked with affectionate 
veneration and pleasure on the lady, who, having devoted her 
life and fortune to the service of this tender and sublime genius, 
in watching over him with maternal vigilance through many years 
of the darkest calamity, appeared to be now enjoying a reward 
justly due to the noblest exertions of friendship, in contemplating 
the health and renown of the poet, whom she had the happiness 
to preserve. 

It seemed hardly possible to survey human nature in a more 
touching and more satisfactoiy point of view. — Their tender 
;xttention to each other, their simple devout gratitude for the mer- 
cies which they had experieiiced together, and their constant, but 
miaifected propensity to impress on the mind and heart of a new 
friend, the deep sense which they incessantly felt of their mutual 
oljhgations to each other, afforded me very singular gratificatian ; 
which my reader will conceive the more forcibly, when he has 
perused the following exquisite sonnet, addressed by Cowper to 
Mrs. Unwin. 

SONNET. 

Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings ; 

Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew i 

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, 

And undebas'd by praise of meaner things ! 

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 

I may record thy worth, with honour due, 

In verse as musical as thou art true, 

Verse, that immortalizes whom it sings I 



LIFE OF COWPER. 25 

But thou hast little need: there is a book 
By seraphs writ, with beams of heavenly light, 
On which the eyes of God not rarely look j 
A chronicle of actions just and bright ! 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 

And since thou own'st tliat praise, I spare thee mine. 



/ 



The delight that I derived from a perfect view of the virtues, 
the talents, and the present domestic enjoyments of Cowper, was 
suddenly overcast by the darkest and most painful anxiety. 

After passing our mornings in social study, we usually walked 
out together at noon. In returning from one of our rambles, 
around the pleasant village of Weston, we were met by Mr. 
Greatheed, an accomplished minister of the gospel, who resides 
at Newport-Pagnel, and whom Cowper described to me in terms 
of cordial esteem. 

He came forth to meet us as we drew near the house, and iC 
Ivas soon visible from his countenance and manner, that he had ill 
news to impart. After the most tender preparation that humanity 
could devise, he acquainted Cowper that Mrs. Unwin was under 
the immediate pressure of a paralytic attack. 

My agitated friend rushed to tlie sight of the sufferer. He 
returned to me in a state that alarmed me in the highest degree 
for his faculties. His first speech to me was wild in the extreme. 
My answer would appear little less so, but it was addressed to the 
predominant fancy of my unhappy friend ; and, with the blessing 
of heaven, it produced an instantaneous calm in his troubled mind. 

From that moment he rested on my friendship with such mild 
and cheerful confidence, that his affectionate spirit regarded me 
as sent providentially to support him in a season of the severest 
affliction. 

A very fortunate incident enabled me to cheer him by a little 
show of medical assistance, in a form that was highly beneficial to 
his compassionate mind, whatever its real influence might be on 
the palsied limbs of our interesting patient. 

Having formerly provided myself with an electrical apparatus, 
for the purpose of appl}'ing it medicinally to counteract a continual 
tendency to inflammation in the eyes, I had used it occasionally, 
for several years, in trying to relieve various maladies in my 
rustic neighbours ; often, indeed, with no success, but now and then 
with the happiest effect. I wished to try this powerful, though 
uncertain remedy on the present occasion ; and inquired most 

VOL. II. £ 



26 LIFE OF COT^TER. 

eagerly if the village of Weston could produce an electrical ma- 
chine. — It was hardly to be expected ; but it so happened, that a 
worthy inhabitant of Weston, a man whom Cowper regarded for 
uncommon gentleness of manners, and for an ingenious mind, pos- 
sessed exactly such an apparatus as we wanted, which he had 
partly constructed himself. 

This good man, Mr. Socket, was absent from the village, but 
his wife, for whose relief the apparatus had been originally formed, 
most readily lent it to her suffering neighbour. With this season- 
able aid, seconded by medicines probably more efficacious, from a 
physician (of consummate skill and benevolence, united to the 
most fascinating manners) whom I was then so happy as to reckon 
in the list of my living ft-iends, Mrs. Unwin was gi-adually restored. 

But the progress of her recovery, and its influence on the ten- 
der spirits of Co^vper, will sufficiently appear in the following 
letters. — I shall have a mournful pleasure in adding to these a 
few verses, in which the gi-atitude of Cowper has celebrated, most 
tenderly, the kindness of the late Dr. Austin, the physician to 
whom I have alluded, and whose memory is most deservedly dear 
to me. The exti-eme tenderness of Cowper is, indeed, very forci- 
bly displayed in that generous excess of praise with which he 
speaks of my services on his sudden affliction. 



LETTER XXII. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge^ May 24, 1792. 
I wish with all my heart, my dearest coz. 
that I had not ill news for the subject of the present letter. My 
fi-iend, my Mary, has again been attacked by the same disorder 
that threatened me last year with the loss of her, and of which you 
were yourself a witness. Gregson would not allow that first 
sti-oke to be paralytic, but this he acknowledges to be so ; and with 
respect to the former, I never had myself any doubt that it was ; 
but this has been much the severest. Her speech has been almost 
vinintelligible from the moment that she was struck : it is with diffi- 
culty that she opens her eyes, and she cannot keep them open; the 
muscles necessaiy to the purpose being contracted ; and as to self- 
moving powers, from place to place, and the use of her right hand 
and arm, she has entirely lost them. 

It has happened well, that, of all men living, the man most qua- 
lified to assist and comfort me is here, though till within these few 
days I never saw him, and a few weeks since had no expectation 
that I ever sliould. You have already guessed tliat I mean Hayle} — 



LIFE OF COWPER. S? 

Hayley, who loves me as if he had known me from my cradle. 
When he returns to town, as he must, alas, too soon, he will pay 
his respects to you. 

I will not conclude without adding that our poor patient is begin- 
ning, I hope, to recover from this stroke also ; but her amendment 
is slow, as must be expected at her time of life, and in such a 
disorder. I am as well myself as you have ever known me in a 
time of much trouble, and even better. 

It was not possible to prevail on Mrs. Unwin to let me send for 
Dr. Kerr, but Hayley has written to his friend. Dr. Austin, a re- 
presentation of her case, and we expect his opinion and advice 
to-morrow. In the mean time, we have borrowed an electrical 
machine from our neighbour Socket, the effect of which she tried 
yesterday and the day before, and we think it has been of material 
service. 

She was seized while Hayley and I were walking, and Mr» 
Greatheed, who called while we were absent, was with her. 

I forgot in my last to thank thee for the proposed amendments 
of thy friend. WTioever he is, make my compliments to him, 
and thank him. The passages to which he objects have been all 
altered, and when he shall see them new dressed, I hope he will 
like tliem better, W. C. 



LETTER XXm. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge^ May 26, 1792. 
My dearest Coz. 

Knowing that you will be anxious to leani 
"how we go on, I write a few lines to inform you that Mrs. Unwin 
daily recovers a little strength, and a little power of utterance ; 
but she seems strongest, and her speech is more distinct in a morn- 
ing. Hayley has been all in all to us on this very afflictive occasion. 
Love him, I charge you, dearly for my sake. WTiere could I 
have found a man, except himself, who could have made himself 
so necessary to me in so short a time, that I absolutely know not 
how to live without him ? 

Adieu, my dear sweet Coz. Mrs. Unwin, as plainly as her poor 
lips can speak, sends her best love, and Hayley threatens in a few 
days to lay close siege to your affections in person. 

W. C. 
There is some hope, I find, that the Chancellor may continue 
in office, and I shall be glad if he does ; because we have no single 
fc\9n worthy to succeed him. 



25 LIFE OF COWPER. 

I open my letter again to thank you, my dearest coz. for yours 
just received. Though happy, as you well know, to see you at all 
times, we have no need, and I trust shall have none, to trouble 
you with a journey made on purpose; yet once again, I am willing 
and desirous to believe, we shall be a happy trio at Weston ; but, 
unless necessity dictates a journey of charity, I wish aU yours 
hither to be made for pleasure. Farewell — Thou shalt know hoyr 
we go on. 



To Dr. AUSTIN, 

Of Cecil Street, London. 

Austin ! accept a gratefiil verse from met 
The poet's treasure ! no inglorious fee ! 
Lov'd by the muses, thy ingenuous mind 
Pleasing requital in a verse may find ; 
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of time aside, 
Immortalizing names, which else had died : 
And Oh! could I command the glittering wealth, 
With whicli sick kings are glad to purchase health j 
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live. 
Were in the power of verse like mine to give, 
I would not recompence his art with less. 
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress* 

Friend of my friend ! I love thee, though unknown. 
And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXIV. 
To Mrs. BODHAM. 

Wesson, June 4, 1792. 
My DEAREST Rose, 

I am not such an ungrateful and insensi- 
ble animal as to have neglected you thus long without a reason. 



I cannot say that I am sorry that our dear Jolmny finds the pulpit 
door shut against him at present. He is young, and can afford to 
Wait another year : neither is it to be i-egretted, that his time of pre- 
paration for an oilice of so much importance as that of a mhiister 






LIFE OF COWTER. 29 

•of God's word, should have been a little protracted. It is easier to 
direct the movements of a great army, than to guide a few souls 
to heaven ; the way is narrow, and full of snai'es, and the guide 
himself has the most difficulties to encountei-. But I trust he will 
do well. He is single in his views, honest-hearted, and desirous, 
hy prayer and study of the scripture, to qualify himself for the 
service of his great master, who will suffer no such man to fail for 
"vv'ant of his aid and protection. Adieu. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXV. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

IVeslon, June 3, 1792. 
Jill's Well. 
Which words I place as conspicuously as 
'possible, and prefix them to my letter, to save you the pain, my 
friend and brother, of a moment's anxious speculation. Poor 
Mary proceeds in her amendment still, and improves, I think, 
even at a swifter rate than when you left her. The stronger she 
^ows, the faster she gathers strength, which is pei'liaps the natu- 
ral course of recovery. She walked so well this morning, that she 
told me at my first visit, she had entirely forgot her illness, and she 
spoke so distinctly, and had so much her usual countenance, that, 
had it been possible, she would have made me forget it too. 

Returned from my walk, blown to tatters — found two dear things 
5n the study, your letter, and my Mary ! She is bravely well, and 
your beloved epistle does us both good. I found your kind pencil- 
note in my song-book, as soon as I came down on the morning of 
}'our departure ; and Mary was vexed to the heart, that the sim- 
jjletons who watched her supposed her asleep, when she was not, 
for she learned soon after you were gone, that you would have 
peeped at her, had you known her to have been awake. I, perhaps, 
might have had a peep too, and thei-efore was as vexed as she : but 
if it please God, we shall make ourselves large amends for all lost 
peeps by and by at Eartham. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXVI. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, E-squirc. 

JFeston, June 5, 1792, 

Yesterday was a noble day with us— 

speech almost perfect — eyes open almost tlic whole day, without 



so LIFE OF COWPER. 

any effort to keep them so ; and the step wonderfully improved* 
But the night has been almost a sleepless one, owing partly, I be- 
lieve, to her having liad as much sleep again as usual the night be- 
fore : for even when she is in tolerable health, she hardly ever 
sleeps well two nights together. I found her, accordingly, a httle 
out of Spirits this morning, but still insisting on it that she is better. 
Indeed, she always tells me so, and will probably die with those 
very words upon her lips. They will be true then, at least, for 
then she will be best of all. She is now (the clock has just struck 
eleven) endeavouring, I believe, to get a little sleep, for which 
reason I do not yet let her know that I have received your letter. 

Can I ever honour you enough for your zeal to serve me? Truly 
1 think not : I am, however, so sensible of the love I owe you on this 
account, that I every day regret the acuteness of your feelings for 
me, convinced that they expose you to much trouble, mortifica- 
tion, and disappointment. I have, in short, a poor opinion of my 
destiny, as I told 3'ou when you were here ; and though I believe 
that if any man living can do me good, you will, I cannot yet per- 
suade myself, that even you will be successful in attempting it. But 
it is no matter ; }^ou are yourself a good which I can never value 
enough, and whether rich or poor in other respects, I shall always 
account myself better provided for than I deserve, with such a 
friend at my back as you. Let it please God to continue to me 
my William and Mary, and I will be more reasonable than to 
grumble. 

I rose this morning wrapt round with a cloud of melancholy, and 
"with a heart full of fears ; but if I see Mary's amendment a little 
advanced, when she rises, I shall be better. 

I have just been with her again. Except that she is fatigued 
for want of sleep, she seems as well as yesterday. The post 
brings me a letter from Hurdis, who is broken-hearted for a dying 
sister. Had we eyes sharp enough, we should see the arrows of 
death flying in all directions, and account it a wonder that we, and 
our friends, escape them but a single day. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXVn. 
To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, June 7, 1792, 

Of what materials can you suppose me 

made, if, after all the rapid proofs that you have given me of your 

friendship, I do not love you with all my heart, and regret your 

absence continually? But you must permit me, nevertheless, to bo^ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 31 

melancholy now and then ; or if you will not, I must be so without 
your permission ; for that sable thread is so intermixed with the 
vei-y thread of my existence as to be inseparable from it, at least 
while I exist in the body. Be content, therefore, let me sigh and 
^roan, but always be sure that I love you. You will be well as- 
sured that I should not ]\a.ye indulged myself in this x-hapsody about 
myself, and my melancholy, had my present mood been of that 
complexion, or had not cur poor Mary seemed still to advance in 
her recovery. So in fact she does, and has performed several little 
feats to-day ; such as either slie could not i^crform at all, or very 
feebly, while you were with us. 

I shall be glad if you have seen Johnny, as I call him, my Nor- 
folk cousin ; he is a sweet lad, but as shy as a bird. It costs him 
always two or three days to open his mouth before a stranger; 
but when he does, he is sure to please i)y the innocent cheerful- 
ness of his conversation. His sister, too, is one of my idols, for the 
resemblance she bears to my mother. 

Mary and you have all my thoughts ; and how should it be other- 
vise? She looks well, is better, and loves you deai'ly. 

Adieu, my brother. W. C. 



LETTER XXVin. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

JVestoii, June 10, 1792. 
I do, indeed, anxiously wish that every 
thing you do may prosper ; and should I at last prosper by your 
means, shall taste double sweetness in prosperity for that reason. 

I rose this morning, as I usually do, with a mind all in sables. 
In this mood I pi-esented myself to Mary's bed-side, whom I found, 
though after many hours lying awake, yet cheerful, and not to be 
affected with my desponding humour. It is a great blessing to us 
both, that poor feeble thing as she is, she has a most invincible 
courage, and a tnist in God's goodness that nothing shakes. She 
is nov/ in the study, and is certainly, in some degree, better than 
she was yestei'day ; but how to measure that little I know not, ex- 
cept by saying that it is just perceptible. 

I am glad that you have seen my Johnny of Norfolk, because I 
knov/ it will be a comfort to you to have seen your successor. He 
arrived, to my great joy, yesterday; and not having bound him- 
self to any particular time of going, will, I hope, stay long with us. 
You are now once more snug in your retreat ; and I give you joy of 
your return to it, after the bustle in which you have lived since 
j"ou left Weston. Weston mourns your absence, and will mourn it 



32 LIFE OF COWPER» 

till she sees you again. What is to become of Milton I know notr 
I do nothing but scribble to you, and seem to have no relish for 
any other employment. I have, however, in pursuit of your idea, 
to compliment Darwin, put a few stanza's together, which I shall 
subjoin ; you will easily give them all that you find they want, and 
match the song with another. 

I am now going to walk with Johnny, much cheered since I be- 
gan writing tayou^ and by Mary's looks and good spirits. 

w. c- 



To Dr. DARWIN, 

Author of the Botanic Garden. 

Two poets (poets, by report, 

Not oft so well agree) 
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court t 

Conspire to honour thee» 

They best can judge a poet's worth, 
Who oft themselves have known 

The pangs of a poetic birth, 
By labours of their own. 

We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy son,^, 
Though various, yet complete ; 

Rich in embellishment as strong, 
And learn 'd as it is sweet. 

No envy mingles with our praise ; 

Though, could our hearts repine 
At any poet's happier lays, 

They would, they must, at thine. 

But we, in mutual bondage knit 
Of Friendship's closest tie, 

Can gaze on even Darwin's wit 
With aji unjauildic'd eye : 

And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, 

And howsoever known, 
Who would not twine a wreath for thee, 

Uawcrthy of his own. 



LIFE OF COWPEK. 33 

LETTER XXIX. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

June 19, 1792. 
* * * Thus have I filled a 

tvliole page to my dear\Mlliam of Eaitham, aud have not said a 
syllable }et about my Mary — a sure sign that she goes on well. 
Be it known to you, that we have these four days discarded ouv 
sedan with two elbows. Here is no more carrjiiig, or being car- 
ried, but she walks up stairs boldly, with one hand upon the balu- 
strade, and the other under my arm, and in like manner she comes 
down in a morning. Still I confess she is feeble, and misses 
much of her former strength. The weather, too, is sadly against 
her ; it deprives her of many a good turn in the orchard, and fifty 
times I have wished tliis very day, that Dr. Darwin's scheme of 
giving rudders and sails to the Ice-islands, that spoil all our sum- 
mers, were actually put in practice. So should we have gentle 
airs instead of churlish blasts, and those everlasting sources of bad 
weather being once navigated into the southern hemisphere, my 
Mary would recover as fast again* We are both of your mind 
respecting the journey to Eartham, and think that July, If by that 
time she have strength for the journey, will be better than August. 
We shall have more long days before us, and then we shall want 
as much for our return as for our going forth. Tliis, however, 
must be left to die Giver of all good. If our visit to you be ac- 
cording to his will, he will smooth our Avay befoi-e us, and appoint 
the time of it ; and I thus speak, not because I wish to seem a saint 
in j'our eyes, but because my poor Mary is actually one, and would 
not set her foot over the threshold to save her life, unless she had, 
or thought she had, God's free permission. With that she would 
go through floods and fire, though without it she would be afraid 
of every thing ; afraid even to visit you, dearly as she loves, and 
much as she longs to see you. 

\\\ C. 



LETTER XXX. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

1Ves(07i, June 27, 179^. 
Well then — let us talk about this journey- 
to Eartham. You wish me to settle the time of it, and I wisli with 
all my heart to be able to do so, living in hopes, meanwhile, that 
I shall be able to do it soon. But some little time must necessarily 
intervene. Our Mary must be able to walk alone, to cut her own 

VOL, II. F 



34 LIFE OF COWPER. 

food, and to feed herself, and to wear her own shoes, for at pre- 
sent she wears mine. All things considered, my friend and bro- 
ther, you will see the expediency of waiting a little before we set 
off to Eartham : we mean, indeed, before that day arrives, to make 
a trial of the strength of her head, how far it may be able to bear 
the motion of a carriage, a motion that it has not felt these seven 
years. I grieve that we are thus circmnstanced, and that we 
cannot gratify ourselves in a delightful and innocent project without 
all these precautions ; but when we have leaf-gold to handle, we 
must do it tenderly. 

I thank you, my brother, both for presenting my authorship to 
your friend Guy, and for the excellent verses with which you have 
inscribed your present. There are none neater or better turned : 
with what shall I requite you ? I have nothing to send you but a 
gimcrack, which I have prepared for my bride and bridegroom 
neighbours, who are expected to-morrow. You saw in my book a 
poem, entitled Catharina, and which concluded with a wish that 
we had her for a neighbour : this, therefore, is called 

CATHARINA : 
THE SECOND PART. 

On her Marriage to George CouRT'ENEr, Esquire^ 

Believe it or not, as you choose. 

The doctrine is certainly true. 
That the future is known to the muse, 

And poets are oracles too. 

I did but express a desire 

To see Catharina at home. 
At the side of my friend George's fire ; 

And lo ! she is actually come. 

And such prophecy some may despise ; 

But the wish of a poet and friend 
Perhaps is approv'd in the skies. 

And therefore attains to its end. 

'Twas a wish, that flew ardently forth 
From a bosom effectually warm'd 

With the talents, the graces, and worth 
Of the person for whom it was form'd. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 35 

Mai'ia would leave us, I knew, 

To the grief and regret of us all; 
But less to our grief could we view 

Catharina the queen of the hall. 

And therefore, I wish'd as I did. 

And therefore, this union of hands 
Not a whisper was heard to forbid. 

But all cry, Amen, to the bands. 

Since, therefore, I seem to incur 

No danger of wishing in vain, 
When making good wishes for her, 

I will e'en to my v/ishes again. 

With one I have made her a wife, 

And now I will try with another, 
Wliich I cannot suppress for my life. 

How soon I can make her a mother. 

w. c. 



LETTER XXXL 
To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esquire. 

West072, July 4, 17'92. 
I know not how you proceed in your life 
of Milton, but I suppose not very rapidly, for while you were 
here, and since you left us, you have had no other theme but me. 
As for myself, except my letters to you, and the nuptial song I in- 
serted in my last, I have literally done nothing since I saw you : 
nothing, I mean, in the writing way, though a great deal in ano- 
ther ; that is to say, in attending my poor Mary, and endeavour- 
ing to nurse her up for a journey to Eartham. In this I have hi- 
therto succeeded tolerably well, and had rather carry this point 
completely than be the most famous editor of Milton that tlie 
world has ever seen or shall see. 

Your humorous descant upon my art of wishing made us merry, 
and consequently did good to us both. I sent my wish to the Hall 
yesterday. They are excellent neighbours, and so friendly to me 
<that I wished to gratify them. When I went to pay my first visit, 
<jcorge flew into the court to meet me, and when I entered tlie 
parlour, Catharina sprang into my arms. 

W, C. 



SS LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER XXXn. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, July 15, ITOS. 
The progress of the old nurse in Terence 
is very much like the progress of my poor patient in the road of 
recovery. I cannot, indeed, say that she moves, but advances not, 
for advances are certainly made, but the progress of a week is 
hardly perceptible. I know not, therefore, at present, what to say 
about this long-postponed journey. The utmost that it is safe for 
me to say at this moment is this; you know that you are dear to us 
both ; true it is that you are so, and equally true that the very 
instant we feel ourselves at liberty we will fly to Eartham. I have 
been but once within the Hall door since the Courteneys came 
liome, much as I have been pressed to dine there, and have hardly 
escaped giving a little offence by declining it. But though I should 
offend all the world by my obstinacy in this instance, I would not 
leave my poor Mary alone. Johnny serves me as a representative, 
and him I send without scruple. As to the affair of Milton, I know 
not what will become of it. I Avrote to Johnson a week since to tell 
him that the interruption of Mrs. Unwin's illness still continuing, 
and being likely to continue, I know not when I should be able to 
proceed. The translations, I said, were finished, except the revi-? 
sal of a part, 

God bless your dear little boy and poet \ I thank him for exer- 
cising his dawning genius upon me. and shall be still happier to 
thank him in person. 

Abbot is painting me so true. 

That, trust me )^ would stare, 
And hardly know, at the first view, 

If I were here, or there. 

I have sat tv^^^ce; and the fev/ who have seen his copy of me are 
much struck v,'ith the resemblance. He is a sober, quiet man, 
which, considering that I must have him at least a week longer 
for an inmate, is a great comfort to me. 

My Mary sends you her best love. She can walk now, 
leaning on my arm only, and her speech is certainly much im- 
proved. I long to see you. Why cannot you and dear Tom spend 
the remainder of the summer with us ? We m.ight then all set off 
for Eartham merrily together. But I retract this, conscious that 
I am unreasonable. It is a wretched world, and what we would, 
is almost always what we cannot. Adieu. Love me, and be sure 
pf a return, \\', C, 



LIFE OF COWPER. ST 

LETTER XXXin. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, July 22, 1792. 
This important affiiir, my dear brother, 
is at last decided, and we are coming. Wednesday/ se'nnight, if 
nothing occur to make a later dajf necessary, is the day fixed for 
our journey. Our rate of travelling must depend on Mary's abi- 
lity to bear it. Our mode of travelling will occupy three days 
unavoidably, for we shall come in a coach. Abbot finishes my 
picture to-morrow; on Wednesday he returns to town, and is com- 
missioned to order one down for us, with four steeds to draw it: 

— — " Hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, 
*' That cannot go but forty miles a day." 

Send us our route, for 1 am as ignorant of it almost as if I were in 
a strange country. — We shall reach St. Alban's, I suppose, the 
first day ; say where we must finish our second day's journey, and 
at what inn we may best repose. As to the end of the third day, 
we know where that will find us ; ^•iz. in the arms and under the 
roof of our beloved Hayley. 

General Cowper having heard a rumour of this intended migi'a- 
tion, desires to meet me on the road, that we may once more see 
each other. He lives at Ham, near Kingston. Sliall we go through 
Kingston, or near it? Fori would give him as little trouble as pos-» 
sible, though he offers very kindly to come as far as Barnet for 
that purpose. Nor must I forget Carwardine, who so kindly de- 
sired to be informed what way we should go. On what point of 
the road will it be easiest for him to find us? On all these points 
you must be my oracle. My friend and brother, we shall over- 
whelm you with our numbers : this is all the trouble that I have 
left. My Johnny of Norfolk, happy in the thought of accompany- 
ing us, would be broken-hearted to be left behind. 

In the midst of all these solicitudes I laugh to think what they 
fire made of, and what an important thing it is for me to travel. 
Other men steal away from their homes silently, and make no 
disturbance ; but when I move, houses are turned upside down, 
maids are turned out of their beds, all the counties through which 
I pass appear to be in an uproar. Surry greets mc by the mouth 
of the General, and Essex by that of Cai*wardine. How strange 
does all this seem to a man who has seen no bustle, and made none, 
for twenty jears together ! 

^^ . c. 



I 

S« LIFE OF COWTER. 

IJ^TTER XXXW. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

West07i, July 29, 1752* 

Througli floods and flames to your retreat 

I win my desp'rate way, 
And when we meet, if e'er we meet, 

Will echo your huzza. 

You will wonder at the word desp'rate in the second line, and at 
the if in the third ; but could you have any conception of the fears 
I have had to bustle with, of the dejection of spirits that I have 
suflFered concerning this journey, you would wonder much more 
that I still courageously persevere in my resolution to undertake it. 
Fortunately for my intentions it happens that as the day ap- 
proaches my terrors abate ; for had they continued to be what they 
were a week since, I must, after all, have disappointed you; and 
was actually once on the verge of doing it. I have told you some- 
thing of my nocturnal experiences, and assure you now that they 
were hardly ever more terrific than on this occasion. Prayer has, 
■however, opened my passage at last, and obtained for me a degree 
of confidence that I trust will prove a comfortable viaticum to me 
all the way. On Wednesday, therefore, we set forth. 

The terrors that I have spoken of would appear ridiculous to 
•most, but to you they will not, for you are a reasonable creature, 
and know well, that, to whatever cause it be owing, whether to con- 
stitution or to God's express appointment, I am hunted by spiritual 
hounds in the night-season. I cannot help it. You will pity me, 
and wish it were otherwise ; and though you may think that there 
is much of the imaginary in it, will not deem it, for that reason, an 
«vil less to be lamented. So much for fears and distresses. Soon, 
1 hope, they shall all have a joyful termination, and I, my Mary, 
my Johnny, and my dog, be skipping with delight at Eartham. 

Well, this picture is at last finished, and well finished, I can 
tissure you. Every creature that has seen it has been astonished at 
the resemblar.cc. Sam's boy bowed to it, and Beau walked up to 
it, wacging histail as he went, and evidently showing that he ac- 
liiiowledged its likeness to his master. It is a half-length, as it is 
technically but absurdly called; that is to say^ it gives ail but the 
foot and ankle. To-morrow it goes to town, and will hang some 
months at Abbot's, when it will be sent to its due destination m 
:Norfolk. 

I hope, or ratlier wish, that at Eartham I may recover that 
JiEiliitof study which, inveterate as it once seemed, I now seem to 



LIFE OF COWPER. 39 

have lost — lost to such a degi-ee, that it is even painful to me to 
think of what it will cost me to acquire it again. 

Adieu, m^- dear, dear Hayley ; God give us a happy meeting. 
Mary sends her love — she is in pretty good piight this morning, 
having slept well, and, for her part, has no fear:i at all about the 
journey. Ever yours, W. C. 



The affectionate little prayer at tl-.c close of the last letter pre- 
vailed, and providence conducted these most intcrc;;ting travellers 
very safely to my retreat. The delights that I enjoyed in promot- 
ing the health and cheerfulness of guests so dear to me; in sharing 
the high gratification of Cowper's society, with my old sympathetic 
friend Romncy; and in beholding that expressive resemblance of 
the poet, which forms a frontispiece to this work, grow under the 
pencil of the friendly artist (agreeably inspired by the mental dig- 
nity of his sulMect) ; these delights are indeed treasured in my 
memory, among those prime blessings of mortal existence which 
still call for our gratitude to heaven, even when they are departed; 
for even then they still affiird us that sweet secondary life which 
we form to ourselves, from the pleasing contemplation of past 
hours very happily employed. 

It is, however, unnecessary for me to dwell on the memoral)Ie 
period that Cowper passed under my roof, because a few of his 
letters, written to different friends Avhile he uas with me, will suf- 
ficiently describe tlie beneficial effect which the beautiful scenery 
of Sussex very visibly produced on his health and spirits. I fear 
not the imputation of vanity for inserting the vivid praise of my 
friend on the spot I inhabited, for I now inhabit it no more ; and if 
I ever liad any such vanity, it must have perished with the darling- 
child for whom I wisiied to embellish and preserve the scene 
that Cowper has so highly commended. 

The tender partiality which this most feeling friend had con- 
ceived for me rendered him not a little partial to whatever engaged 
his thoughts as mine. Many endearing marks of such partiality 
occurred during his residence at Eartham • but the one which 
gratified me most I cannot forbear to mention. I mean the vcy 
sweet condescension with which he admitted to his friendship and 
confidence the child to whom I have alluded, at that time a boy of 
eleven years, whose rare early talents, and rarer modesty, en- 
deared him so much to Cowper, that he allowed and invited him 
to criticise his Homer. The good-natured reader will forgive me» 
if he happens to find a brief specimen of such juvenile criticism iu 
their future correspondence. 



4o LIFE OF COWPER. 

Homer was not the immediate object of our attention, -while 
Cowper resided at Eartham. The morning hours that we could 
bestow upon books were chiefly devoted to a complete revisal and 
correction of all the translations whicli my friend had finished 
from the Latin and Italian poetry of Milton ; and it was generally 
our pastime after dinner to amuse ourselves in executing a rapid 
metrical version of Andreini's Adamo. But the constant care 
which the delicate health of Mrs. Unwin required, rendered it 
impossible for us to be veiy assiduous in study, and pei'haps the 
best of all studies was, to promote and share that most singular and 
most exemplary tenderness of attention, with which Cowper in- 
cessantly laboured to counteract every infirmity, bodily and men- 
tal, with which sickness and age had conspired to load this interest- 
ing guardian of his afflicted life. 

I have myself no language sufficiently sti-ong, or sufficiently ten- 
der, to express my just admiration of that angelic, compassionate 
sensibility, with which Cowper incessantly watched over his aged 
invalid ; but my reader will yet be enabled to form an adequate 
idea of that sensibility by a copy of his verses, to which it gave 
rise, when these infirmities grew still more striking, on her retui'ij 
to Weston. 

The air of the south infused a little portion of fresh strengtii 
into her shattered frame, and to give it all possible efficacy, the 
bo)^, whom I have mentioned, and a young associate and fellow stu- 
dent of his, employed themselves regiilarly twice a day, in di'aw- 
ing this venerable cripple, in a commodious garden-chair, round 
the airy hill of Eartham. To Cowper, and to mc, it was a veiy 
pleasing spectacle, to see the benevolent vivacity of blooming 
youth thus continually labouring for the case, health, and amuse- 
ment of disabled age. But of this interesting time I will speak no 
more, since I have a l>etter record of it to present to my reader iu 
the following letters. 



LETTER XXXV. 

To the Reverend Mr. GREATHEED. 

£arl/ia?n, August 6, 1792* 
Mr DEAR Sir, 

Having first thanked you for your affec- 
tionate and acceptable letter, I will proceed, as well as I can, to 
answer your equally affectionate request, that I Avould send you 
early news of our arrival at Eai'tham. Here we are, in the most 
elegant mansion that I have ever inhabited, and smn'ounded by 
tliemost delightful pleasure-grounds that I have ever seen; but 



LIFE OF COWPER. 41 

^hich, dissipated as my powers of thought are at present, I will 
not undertake to descrilje. It shall suffice me to say, that they oc- 
cupy thi'ee sides of a hill, which, in Buckinghamshire, might well 
pass for a mountain, and from the summit of which is beheld a 
most magnificent landscape, bounded by the sea, and in one part 
of it by the Isle of Wight, which may also be seen plainly from 
the window of the library, in which I am writing. 

It pleased God to carry us both through the journey with far less 
difficulty and inconvenience than I expected. I began it, indeed, 
with a thousand fears, and when we arrived the first evening at 
Barnet, found myself oppressed in spirit to a degree that could 
hardly be exceeded. I saw Mrs. Unwin weary, as she might 
well be, and heard such a variety of noises, both within the house 
and without, that I concluded she would get no rest. But I was 
mercifully disappointed. She rested, though not well, yet suffici- 
ently ; and when we finished our next day's journey at Ripley, we 
were both in better condition, both of body and mind, than on the 
day preceding. At Ripley we found a quiet inn, that housed, as 
it happened, that night no company but ourselves. There we 
slept well, and rose perfectly refreshed ; and, except some terrors 
that I felt at passing over the Sussex hills by moon-light, met with 
little to complain of, tiU we arrived, about ten o'clock, at Eartham. 
Here we are as happy as it is in the power of terrestrial good to 
make us. It is almost a paradise in which we dwell; and our re- 
ception has been the kindest that it was possible for friendship 
and hospitality to contri\ e. Our host mentions you with great re- 
spect, and bids me tell you that he esteems you highl)\ Mrs. Un- 
win, who is, I think, in some points, ah'eady the better for her ex- 
cursion, unites with mine her best compliments, both to yourself 
and Mrs. Greatheed. I have much to see and enjoy before I can 
be perfectly apprized of all the delights of Eartham, and will 
tlierefore now subscribe mjself yours, my dear Sir, with great sin- 
cerity, W, C. 



LETTER XXXVI. 
To Mrs. COURTENEY. 

Eartham, August 12, \7^%. 
My dearest Catiiarina, 

Though I have travelled far, nothing did 
I see in my travels that surprised me half so agreeably as your 
kind letter; for high as my opinion is of your good-nature, I had no 
hopes of hearing from you till I should have written first — a plea* 
?ure which I intended to allow myself the first opportunity. 

VOL. II. G 



*9 LIFE OF COWPER. 

After three days confinement in a coach, and suffering as we 
went all that could be suffered from excessive heat and dust, we 
found ourselves late in the evening at the door of our friend Hay ley. 
In every other respect the journey was extremely pleasant. At the 
Mitre, in Barnet, where we lodged the first evening, we found our 
friend Mr. Rose, who had walked thither from his house in Chancery 
Lane to meet us; and at Kingston, where we dined the second day, 
I found my old and much valued fi'iend, General Cowper, whom 
I had not seen in thirty years, and but for this joul*ney should 
never have seen again. Mrs. Unwin, on whose account I had a 
thousand fears before we set out, suffered as little from fatigue as 
myself, and begins, I hope, already to feel some beneficial effects 
from the air of Eartham, and the exercise that she takes in one of 
the most delightful pleasure-grounds in the world. They occupy 
three sides of a hill, lofty enough to command a view of the sea, 
which skirts the horizon to a length of many miles, with the Isle' 
of Wight at the end of it. Tlie inland scene is equally beautiful, 
consisting of a large and deep valley well cultivated, and inclosed 
by magnificent hills, all crowned with wood. I had, for my part, 
no conception that a poet could be the owner of such a paradise j 
and his house is as elegant as his scenes ai'e charming. 

But think not, my dear Catharina, that amidst all these beauties 
I shall lose the remembrance of the peacefid, but less splendid, 
Weston. Your precincts will be as dear to me as ever, when I 
return ; though when that day will arrive I know not, our host 
being determined, as I plainly see, to keep us as long as possible. 
Give my best love to your husband. Thank him most kindly for 
his attention to the old Bard of Greece, and pardon me that I do 
not send you now an epitaph for Fop. I am not sufficiently recol- 
lected to compose even a bagatelle at present; but in due time you 
shall receive it. 

Hayley, who will some time or other, I hope, see you at Weston, 
is already nrepared to love you both> and being passionately fond of 
music, longs much to hear you. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXXVII. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Eartham, August 14, 1792.. 

Romney is here. It would add much to 

my happiness if you were of the party. I have prepared Hayley 

to think highly, that is, justly of you, and the time I hope will come 

irhen you will supersede all need of my recommendation. 



jLIFE OF COWPER. 43 

Mrs. Unwin gathers strength. I have indeed great hopes, from 
the air and exercise which this fine season affords her opportu- 
nity to use, tliat ere we return she will be herself again. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXXVIII. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Eartham^ August 18, 1792. 
Wishes in this world are generally vain, 
and in the next we shall make none. Every day I wish you were 
of our party, knowing how happy you would be in a place where 
we have nothing to do but enjoy beautiful scenery, and converse 
agreeably. 

Mrs. Unwin's health continues to improve; and even I, who 
■^as well when I came, find myself still better. Adieu. 

W. C. 



LETTER XXXIX. 
To Mrs. COURTENEY. 

Eartham^ August 25, 1792, 
Without waiting for an answer to my last, 
I send my dear Catharina the epitaph she desired, composed, as 
well as I could compose it, in a place where eveiy object, being 
still new to me, distracts my attention, and makes me as aukward 
at verse as if I had never dealt in it. Here it is, 

EPITAPH ON POP: 

A Dog belonging to Lady Throckmorton. 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 

Here moulders one, whose bones some honour claim j 

No sycophant, although of spaniel race ! 

And though no hound, a martyr to the chace ! 

Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice ! 

Your haunts no longer echo to his voice. 

This i-ecord of his fate exulting view : 

He died, worn out with vain pursuit of you. 

" Yes !" the indignant shade of Fop replies, 
" And, woi-n with vahi pursuit, Man also dies." 



44 LIFE OF COWPER. 

I am here, as I told you in my last, delightfully situated, and 
in the enjoyment of all that the most friendly hospitality can im- 
part ; yet do I neither forget Weston, nor my friends at Weston : 
on the contrary, I have, at length, tliough much and kindly pressed 
to make a longer stay, determined on the day of our departure. 
On the seventeenth day of September we shall leave Eartham» 
Four days will be necessary to bring us home again ; for I am un- 
der a promise to General Cowper to dine with him on the way, 
which cannot be done comfortably, either to him or to ourselves, 
unless we sleep that night at Kingston. 

The air of this place has been, I beheve, beneficial to us both; 
I indeed was in tolerable health before I set out, but have acquired, 
since I came, both a better appetite, and a knack of sleeping 
almost as much in a single night as formerly in two. Whether 
double quantities of that article will be favourable to me as a poet, 
time must show. About myselfj however, I care little, being 
made of materials so tough as not to threaten me even now, at the 
end of so many lus(ru7ns, with any thing like a speedy dissolution. 
My chief concern has been about Mrs. Unwin, and my chief com- 
fort at this moment is, that she likewise has received, I hope, con- 
siderable benefit by the journey. 

Tell my dear Georgethat I begin to long to behold him again, 
and did it not savour of ingratitude to the friend under whose roof 
I am so happy at present, should be impatient to find myself once 
more under yours. 

Adieu, my dear Catharina. I have nothing to add in the way 
of news, except that Romney has drawn me in crayons, by th« 
suffrage of ail here, extremely like. 

W. C. 



LETTER XL. 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Eartham^ August 26, ITi??. 
My dear Sir, 

Your Icind but very affecting letter found 
me not at Weston, to which place it was directed, but in a bower 
of my friend Hayley's garden, at Eartham, where I was sitting 
with Mrs. Unwin. We both knew, the moment we saw it, from 
whom it came, and observing a red seal, both comforted ourselves 
that all was well at Burwash ; but we soon felt that we were called 
not to rejoice, but to mourn with you : we do indeed sincerely 
mourn with you ; and if it will afford you any consolation to know 
it, you may be assured that every eye here has testified what our 



LIFE OF COWPER. 45 

hearts have suffered for you. Your loss is great, and j'our dis- 
position, I perceive, such as exposes you to feel the whole weight 
of it. I will not add to your sorrow, by a vain attempt to assuage 
it : your own good sense, and the piety of your principles, will, of 
course, suggest to you the most powerful motives of acquiescence 
in the will of God. You will be sure to recollect that the sti-oke, 
severe as it is, is not the stroke of an enemy, but of a father ; and 
wiU find, I trust, hereafter, that, like a father, he has done you 
good by it. Thousands have been able to say, and myself as loud 
as any of them, it has been good for me that I was afflicted; 
but time is necessary to work us to this persuasion, and in due 
time it shall be yours. Mr. Hayley, who tenderly sympathises 
with you, has enjoined me to send you as pressing an invitation as 
I can frame, to join me at this place. I have every motive to wish 
your consent; both your benefit and my own, which, I believe, 
would be abundantly answered by your coming, ought to make me 
eloquent in such a cause. Here you Avill find silence and retire- 
ment in perfection, when you would seek them, and here such 
company as, I have no doubt, would suit you ; all cheerful, but 
not noisy ; and all alike disposed to love you. You and I seem to 
have here a fair opportunity of meeting. It were a pity we should 
he in the same county and not come together. I am here till the 
seventeenth of September, an interval that will afford you time to 
make the necessary arrangements, and to gratify me at last with 
an interview, which I have long desired. Let me hear from you 
soon, that T may have double pleasure, the pleasure of expecting, 
as well :is that of seeing you. 

Mrs. Unwin, I thank God, though still a sufferer by her last ill- 
ness, is much better, and has received considerable benefit by the 
air of Eartham. She adds to mine her affectionate camplimcuts, 
and joins me and Hayley in this invitation. 

Mr. Romney is here, and a young man a cousin of mine. I tell 
3-ou who we are, that you may not be afraid of us. 

Adieu — May the Comforter of all the afflicted who seek him be 
yours. God bless you. 

W. C. 



LETTER XLL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Eariham., jiugiist 26, 17'92. 

I know not how it is, my dearest coz. 

but in a new scene, and surrounded by strange objects, I find my 

powers of tlunking dissipated to a degree that makes it difficult to 



46 LIFE OF COWPER. 

me even to write a letter, and even a letter to you ; but such a 
letter as I Can, I will, and have tlie fairest chance to succeed ihis 
morning; Hayley, and Rcraney, and Hayley's son, and Beau, be- 
ing all gone together to the sea for bathing. The sea, you must 
know, is nine miles oiF; so that unless stupidity prevent I shall 
have opportunity to write not only to you, but to poor Hurdis also, 
who is bi'oken-hearted for the loss of his favourite sister, lately 
dead ; and whose letter, giving an account of it, which I received 
yesterday, drew tears fi'om the eyes of all our party. My only 
Comfort respecting even yourself is, that you write in good spirits, 
and assure me that you ai-e in a state of recovery; othei'wise I 
should mourn not only for Hurdis, but for myself, lest a certain 
event should reduce me, and in a short time too, to a situation as 
distressing as his ; for though natvire designed you only for my cou- 
sin, you have had a sister's place in my affections ever since I knew 
you. The reason is, I suppose, that having no sister, the daughter 
of my own mother, I thought it proper to have one, the daughter 
of yours. Certain it is that I Call by no means afford to lose you, 
and that unless you will be upon honour with me, to give me al- 
ways a true account of yourself, at least when we are not together, 
I shall always be unhappy, because always suspicious that you de- 
ceive me. 

Now for ourselves. I am, without the least dissimulation, in good 
health ; my spirits are about as good as you have ever seen them j 
and if increase of appetite, and a double portion of sleep, be ad- 
vantageous, such are the advantages that I have received from 
this migration. As to tliat gloominess of mind which I have had 
these twenty years, it cleaves to me even here, and could I be trans- 
lated to paradise, unless I left my body behind me, would cleave 
to me even there also. It is my companion for life, and nothing 
will ever divorce us. So much for myself* Mrs. Unwin is evi- 
dently the better for her jaunt, though by no means as she was be- 
fore this last attack ; still wanting help when she would rise from 
her seat, and a support in walking: but she is able to use more 
exercise than she could at home, and moves with rather a less tot- 
tering step. God knows what he designs for me, but when I see 
those who are dearer to me than myself distempered and en- 
feebled, and myself as strong as in the days of my youth, I tremble 
for the solitude in which a few years may place me. I wish her 
and you to die before me, indeed, but not till I am more likely to 
follow immediately. Enough of this. 

Romney has drawn me in crayons, and in the opinion of all 
here, with his best hand, and with the most exact resemblance 
possible. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 4* 

'Hie seventeentii of September is the day on which I intend t» 

leave Eartham. We shall then have been six weeks resident 

here ; a holiday time long enough for a man who has much to do. 

And now farewell. 

W. C. 

P. S. Hayley, whose love for me seems to be truly that of a 

brother, has given me his picture, drawn by Ronaney about fifteen 

years ago ; an admirable likeness. 



LETTER XLIL 

To Lady HESKETH. 

Eartham, Sept. 9, 1792. 

My dearest Coz. 

I determine, if possible, to send you one 
more letter, or, at least, something Uke one, iiefore we leave 
Eartham. But I am, in truth, so unaccountably local in the use 
of my pen, that, like the man in the fable, who could leap well no 
where but at Rhodes, I seem incapable of writing at all, except at 
Weston. This is, as I have alread}- told you, a delightfal place ; 
more beautiful scenery I have never beheld, nor expect to behold; 
but the charms of it, uncommon as they are, have not in the least 
alienated my affections from \Veston, The genius of that place 
suits me better ; it has an air of snug concealment, in which a dis- 
position Uke mine feels itself peculiarly gratified: whereas, here 
I see from every window woods like forests, and hills like moun- 
tahis, a wikbiess, in short, that rather inci-eases my natural melan- 
choly, and which, were it not for the agreeables I find within, 
would soon convince me that mere change of place can avail me 
little. Accordingly, I have not looked out for a house in Sussex, 
nor shall. 

The intended day of our departure continues to be the se\^en- 
teenth. I hope to re-conduct Mrs. Unwin to the Lodge with her 
health considerably mended ; but it is in the article of speech chief- 
ly, and in her powers of walking, that she is sensible of much im- 
provement. Her sight and her hand still fail her, so that she can 
neither read nor work: mortifying circumstances both, to her, who 
is never willingly idle. 

On the eighteenth I propose to dine with the General, and to 
rest that night at Kingston. But the pleasure I shall have in the 
inten'iew will hardly be gi-cater than the pain I shall feel at the 
end of it, for we shall part probably to meet no more. 

Johnny, I know, has told you that Mr. Hurdis is here. Dis- 
tressed by the loss of liis sister, he has rtnounced the place where 



48 LIFE OF COWPER. 

she died for ever, and is about to enter on a new course of life af 
Oxford. You would admire him much. He is gentle in his man- 
ners, and delicate in his person, resembling our poor friend Unwin, 
both in face and figure, more than any one I have ever seen. But 
he has not, at least he has not at present, his ^-ivacit}-. 

I have corresponded since I came liere with Mrs. Courteney, 
and had yesterday a very kind letter from her. 

Adieu, my dear ; may God bless you. Write to me as soon a« 
you can after the twentieth ; I shall then be at Weston, and indulg- 
ing myself in the hope that I shall eve long see you there also. 

W. C. 



Tlie reader will perceive from the last letter, that Cowper-, 
amused as he was with the scenery of Sussex, began to feel the 
powerful attraction of home. Indeed, the infirm state of Mrs. Un- 
win, and the declining season of the year, rendered it highly desir- 
able for the tender travellers to be restored to their own fire-side 
by the time they proposed. 

Their departure from Eartham was a scene of affectionate 
anxiety; and a perfect contrast to the gaiety of their arrival. The 
kindness of Cowper relieved my solicitude concerning their jour- 
ney, by the following letter from Kingston. I insert it as a pleasing 
memorial of that peculiar tenderness of heart, which conspired 
with his most admirable talents to render him tlie most interest- 
ing of men. From an ardent, and, I hope, a laudable desire to 
display this endearing characteristic of my friend, I shall add a 
collection of extracts from his letters to me, ratlier more copious 
tlian I at first intended. 



LETTER XLIII. 
To \MLLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

The Sun, at Kingston, Sept, IS, 1792. 
My dear Brother, 

\^'ith no sinister accident to retard or 
terrify us, we find ourselves, at a quarter before one, arrived safe 
at Kingston. I left you with a heavy heart, and with a heaxy 
heart took leave of our dear Tom, at the bottom of the Chalk-hiU. 
But soon after this last separation, my troubles gushed from my 
eyes, and then I was better. 

We must now prepare for our visit to the General. I add no 
more, therefore, tlian our dearest remembrances and praters that 
God may bless you and yours, and reward you an hundred- fold 



LIFE OF COWPER. 49 

for all your kindness. Tell Tom I shall always hold him dear for 
his affectionate attentions to Mrs. Unwin. Fi cm her heart the 
memory of him can never be erased. Johnny laves you all, and 
has his share in all these acknowledgments. Adieu. 

W. C. 



LETTER XLIV. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

r/cslon, Sefit. 21, 1793. 
My dkar Hayley, 

Chaos himself, even the chaos of Milton, 
is not surrounded with more confusion, nor has a mind more 
completely in a hubbul) than I experience at the present moment. 
At our first arrival, after a long absence, we find a hundred orders 
to servants necessary, a thousand things to be restored to their 
proper places, and an endless variety of minutics to be adjusted ; 
Avhich, though individually of little importance, are most momen- 
tous in the aggregate. In these circumstances I find my^elfc so 
indisposed to writing, that, save to yourself, I would on no account 
attempt it ; but to you I will give such a recital as I can, of all that 
has passed since I sent you that short note from Kingston ; knowing 
that if it be a perplexed recital, you will consider the cause, and 
pardon it. I will begin with a remark, in which I am inclined to 
think you will agree v. ith me, that there is sometimes more true 
hei'oism pa^-sing in a corner, and on occasions that make no noise 
in the world, than has often been exercised by those whom that 
world esteems her greatest heroes, and on occasions the most il- 
lustrious; I hope so at least, for all the heroism I have to boast, 
and all the opportunities I have of displaying any, are of a private 
nature. Alter writing the note I immediately began to prepare 
for my appointed visit to Ham ; but the struggles that I had with 
my own spirit, labouring as I did under the most dreadfid dejec- 
tion, are never to be told. I v/ould have given the world to have 
been excused. I went, however, and carried my point against 
ni) self with a heart riven asunder. I have reasons for all this 
anxiety, which I cannot relate now. The visit, however, passed 
off well, and we returned in the dark to Kingston. I, with a 
lighter heart than I had known since my departure from Eartham, 
and Mary too, for she had suffered hardly less than myself, and 
chiefly on my account. That night we rested well in our inn, and 
at twenty minutes after eight next morning set off for London ; 
exactly at ten we reached Mr. Rose's door : we drank a dish of 
chocolate with him, and proceeded, Mr. Rose riding with us as 

VOL. II, * H 



so LIFE OF COWPER. 

far as St. Albaii's. From this time we met with no impediment. 
In the dark, and in a storm, at eight at night we found ourse ves 
at om' own back door. Mrs. Unwin was very near slipping out 
of the chair in which she was taken from the chaise, but at last 
was landed safe. We all have had a good night, and are all well 
this morning. God bless you my dearest brother. 

W. C. 



LETTER XLV. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, Oct. 2, 1792^ 
My DEAR Hayley, 

A bad night, succeeded by an east wind,.. 
and a sky all in sables, have such an effect on my spirits, that, if I 
did not consult my own comfort more than yours, I should not, 
write to-day, for I shall not entertain you much. Yet your letter, 
though containing no very pleasant tidings, has afforded me some- 
relief. It tells me, indeed, that you have been dispirited yourself, 
and that poor little Tom, the faithful squire of my Mary, has been 
seriously indisposed. All this grieves me; but then there is a 
warmth of heart and a kindness in it that do me good. I will en- 
deavour not to repay you in notes of sorrow and despondence, 
though all my sprightly chords seem broken. In truth, one day 
excepted, I have not seen the day when I have been cheerful since 
I left you. My spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower than 
they were : the approach of winter is, perhaps, the cause, and if 
it is, I have nothing better to expect for a long^ time to come. 

Yesterday was a day of assignation with myself, the day of 
which I said some days before it came, when that day comes I will 
begin my dissertations. Accordingly, when it came I prepared to 
do so; filled a letter-case with fresh paper, furnished myself with 
a pretty good pen, and replenished my ink-bottle ; but partly from 
one cause, and partly from another, chiefly, however, from dis- 
tress and dejection, after writing and obliterating about six lines, 
in the composition of which I spent near and hour, I was obliged 
to relinquish the attempt. An attempt so unsuccessful could have 
no other effect than to dishearten me, and it has had that effect to 
such a degree, that I know not when I shall find courage to make 
another. At present I shall certainly abstain, since, at present, 
I cannot well afford to expose myself to the danger of a fresh mor- 
tification. 

W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. *1 

LETTER XLVL 

To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esqiilre. 

Weston, OcU 13, 1/92. 

I began a letter to you yesterday, my 

jcleai*est "bi'other, and proceeded through two sides of the theet; but 

so much of my nervous fever found its way into it, that, looking 

it over this morning, I determined not to send it. 

I have risen, though not in good spirits, yet in better than I ge- 
nerally do of late, and therefore will not address you in the melan- 
-choly tone that belongs to my worst feelings. 

I began to be restless about your portrait, and to say, how long 
shall I have to wait for it ? I wished it here for many reasons : 
the sight of it will be a comfort to me, for I not only love, but am 
proud of ycu, as of a conquest made in my old age. Johnny goes 
to town on Monday, on purpose to call on Romney, to whom he 
shall give all proper information concerning its conveyance hither. 
The name of a man whom I esteem as I do Romney, ought not to 
be unmusical in my ears, but his name will be so till I shall have 
paid him a debt justly due to him, by doing such poetical honours 
to it as I intend. Heaven knows when that intention Avill be exe- 
cuted, for the muse is still as obdurate and as coy as ever. 

Your kind postscript is just arrived, and gives me great plea- 
sure. When I cannot see you myself, it seems some comfort, how- 
ever, that you have been seen by another known to me, and who 
will tell me, in a few days, that he has seen you. Your wishes to 
disperse my melancholy would, I am sure, prevail, did that event 
depend on the warmth and sincerity with which you frame them ; 
but it has baffled both wishes and prayers, and those the most fer- 
vent that could be made, so many years, that the case seems 
hopeless. But no moi*e of this at present. 

Your verses to Austin are as sweet as the honey that they ac- 
company ; kind, friendly, witty, and elegant : when shall I be 
able to do the like ! Perhaps when my Mary, like your little Tom, 
shall cease to be an invalid, I may recover a power, at least, to 
<lo something. I sincerely rejoice in the dear little man's restora- 
,tion. My Mary continues, I hope, to mend a little. 

W. C. 



Lli^E OF COVVPER. 



LETTER XLVII. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, Oct. 19, 17'92. 
My dearest Johnny, 

You are too useful when you are here not 
to be missed on a hundred occasions daily, and too much domes- 
ticated with us not to be regretted always. I hope, therefore, 
that your month or six weeks Avill not be like many that I have 
known, capable of being drawn out into any length whatever, ancj 
productive of nothing but disappointment. 

I have done nothing since you went, except that I have com- 
posed the better half of a sonnet to Romney ; yet e\ en this ought 
to bear an earlier date, for I began to be haunted with a desire to 
do it long before we came out of Sussex, and have daily attempted 
it ever since. 

It would be well for the reading part of the world, if the writ- 
ing part were, many of them, as dull as I am. Yet ev^n this 
small produce, which m.y sterile intellect has hardly yielded at last, 
may serve to convince you that in point of spirits I am not worse. 
In fact, I am a little better. The powders and the laudanum 
together have, for the present at least, abated the fever that con- 
sumes them ; and in measure as the fever abates, I acquire a less 
discouraging view of things, and with it a little power to exert 
myself. 

In the evenings I read Baker's Chronicle to Mrs. Unvvin, hav- 
ing no other history, and hope in time to be as well versed in it, 
as his admirer Sir Roger de Coverlv, 

W. C. 



LETTER XLMII. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

Weston, Oct. 22, 1793, 
My DEAREST Johnny, 

Here am I with I knov/ now not Iioay 
many letters to answer, and no time to do it in. I exhort you, 
therefore, to set a proper value on this, as proving your liriority 
in my attentions, thougli, in other respects, likely to be of little 
value. 

Y'ou do well to sit for yoiu' picture, and give very sufficient rea- 
sons for doing it. You will also, I doubt not, take care that when 
future generations shall look at it, some spectator or other shall 
say, this is the picture of a good man, and a useful one. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 53 

And now God bless you, my dear Johnny. I proceed pretty 
much at the old rate ; rising cheerless and distressed in the mom- 
jjig, and brightening a little as the day gees on. Adieu. 

W. C. 



LETTER XLIX. 
To WILLL\M HAYLEV, Esquire. 

U'esioiiy October 28, 1792. 
Nothing done, mj- dearest brother, nor 
likely to be done at present ; yet I purpose, in a day or two, to 
make another attempt, to which, however, I shall address myself 
with fear and treml^Iing, like a man who, having spruined his 
wrist, dreads to use it. I have not, indeed, like such a man, in- 
jured myself by any extraordinary exertion, but seem as much 
enfeebled as if I had. The consciousness that tliere is so much to 
do, and nothing done, is a burthen that I am not able to beai*. 
Milton, especially, is my grievance, and I might almost as well be 
liaunted b}' his ghost, as goaded with such continual reproaches 
for neglecting him : I will therefore begin ; I will do my best; and 
if, after all, that best prove good for nothing, I will even send the 
notes, worthless as they are, that I have made already ; a mea- 
sure very disagreeable to myself, and to which nothing but neces- 
sity shall compel me. I shall rejoice to see those new samples of 
your biography which you give me to expect. 

Allons ! coui-age ! — Here comes something, however; produced 
after a gestation as long as that of a pregnant woman. It is the 
tlebt long. unpaid; the compliment due to Romney; and if it has 
3our approbation, I will send it, or you may send it for me. I 
must premise, however, that I intended nothing lej,s than a sonnet 
when I began. I know not why, but I said to myself, it shall not 
be a sonnet: accordingly I attempted it in one sort of measure, 
then in a second, then in a third, till I had made the trial in half 
a dozen different kinds of shorter verse, and behold it is a sonnet 
at last. The fates would have it so. 



To GEORGE ROMNEY, Esquire. 

Romney I expert infallible to trace. 
On chart or canvass, not the form alone. 
And 'semblance, but, hov/ever faintly sho^m, 
The mind's impression too on every face: 



S4 LIFE OF COWPER. 

With strokes that time ought never to erasft, 
Thou hast so pencil'd mine, that though I own 
The subject worthless, I have never known 
The ai'tist shining with superior gi'ace. 

But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe 

In thy incomparable work appear : 

Well, I am satisfied it should be so, 

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; 

For in my looks, Avhat sorrow could'st thou see, 
While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee ? 



LETTER L. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 
My dE;ar Friend, JVesto??, Mjv. 9, 1792* 

I wish that I were as industrious, and as 
much occupied as you, though in a different way ; but it is not so 
with me. Mrs.Unwin's great debility (who is not yet able to move 
without assista.nce) is of itself a hinderance such as would effec- 
tually disable me. Till she can work and read, and fill up her 
"timie as usual, (all which is at present entirely out of her power) I 
may now and then find time to write a letter, but I shall write no- 
thing more. I cannot sit with my pen in my hand, and my books 
before me, w;hile she is, in effect, in solitude, silent and looking at 
the fire. To this hinderance that other has been added, of which 
you are already aware, a v/ant of spirits, such I have never known, 
"When I was not absolutely laid by, since I commenced an author. 
How long I shall be continued in these uncomfortable circumstances 
is kno^^^l only to Him, who, as he will, disposes of us all. I may 
yet be able, perhaps, to prepare the first book of the Paradise 
Lost for the press before it will be wanted ; and Johnson himself 
sreems to think there will be no haste for the second. But poetry 
is my favourite emplojniient, and all my poetical operations are, 
in the mean time, suspended ; for while a work to which I have 
bound myself remains unaccomplished, I can do nothing else. 

Johnson's plan of prefixing my phiz to the new edition of my 
poems is by no means a pleasant one to me ; and so I told him in 
a letter I sent him from Eartham, in which I assured him that my 
objections to it would not be easily surmounted. But if you judge 
that it may really have an effect in advancing the sale, I would 
not be so squean^ish as to suffer the spirit of prudery to prevail in 
sue to hh disaclvantagf. Somebody told an author, I forget whom. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 55 

that there was more vanity in refusing his picture than in gi-ant- 
ing it, on which he instantly complied. I do not perfectly feel all 
the force of tlie argument, but it shall content me that he did. 

I do most sincerely rejoice in the success of your publication, and 
have no doubt that my prophecy concerning your success in 
greater matters will be fulfilled o 'U''c are naturally pleased when 
our friends approve what we approve ourselves ; how much then 
must I be pleased when you speak so kindly of Johnny ! I know 
him to be all that you think him, and love him entirely. 

Adieu. We expect j^ou at Christmas, and shall therefore re- 
joice when Christmas comes. Let notliiug interfere. 

Ever yours, \\'. C. 



LETTER LL 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 
My dearest Johnny, Weston, JVbv. 20, 1792. 

I give you many thanks for your rhymes, 
and for your verses without rhyme; for your poetical dialogue 
between wood and stone ; between Homer's head and the head of 
Samuel ; kindly intended, I know well, for my amusement, and 
that amused me much. 

The successor of the clerk defunct, for whom I used to write 
moi'tuary verses, arrived here this morning, with a recommen- 
datory letter from Joe Rye, and an humble petition of his own, 
intreating me to assist him as I had assisted his predecessor. I have 
undertaken the service, although with no little reluctance, being 
involved in many arrears on other subjects, and having very little 
dependance at present on my abilitj- to write at all. I proceed ex- 
actly as when you were here — a letter now and tlien before break- 
fast, and the rest of my time all holiday ; if holiday it may be 
called, that is spent chiefly in moping and musing, and '•'• forecasU 
ing the faahion of uncertain evils," 

The fever on my spirits has harrassed me much, and I have 
never had so good a night nor so quiet a rising, since you went, as 
on this very morning — a relief that I account particularly season- 
able and propitious ; because I had, in my intentions, devoted this 
morning to you, and could not have fulfilled those intentions had I 
been as spiritless as I generally am. 

I am glad that Johnson is in no haste for Milton, for I seem my- 
self not likely to address myself presently to that concern, with 
any prospect of success ; yet something now and then, like a secret 
whisper, encourages and assures me that it will } ct be done. 

\V. C. 



56 LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER LIL 
To WILLLA-M HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston^ Mv. 22, 1792. 

How shall I thank you enough for the in- 
terest you take in my future Miltonic labours, and the assistance 
you promise me in the performance of them? I will some time 
or other, if I live, and live a poet, acknowledge your friendship 
in some of my best verse ; the most suitable return one poet can 
make to another: in the mean time I love you, and am sensible 
of all your kindness. You wish me warm in my work, and I ar- 
dently wish the same ; but when I shall be so, God only knows. 
My melancholy, which seemed a little alleviated for a few days, 
has gathered about me again, v/ith as black a cloud as ever: the 
consequence is absolute incapacity to begin. 

I was for some years Dirge -writer to the town of Northampton, 
being employed by the clerk of the principal parish there to fur- 
nish him with an annual copy of verses proper to be printed at the 
foot of his bill of mortality. But the clerk died, and hearing 
nothing for two years fi-om his successor, I well hoped that I was 
out of my office. The other morning, however, Sam announced 
the new clerk: he came to solicit the same service as I had ren- 
dered to his predecessor, and I reluctantly complied; doubtful, 
indeed, whether I was capable. I have, however, achieved that 
fcibour, and I have done nothing more. — I am just sent for up to 
Mary, dear Mary! Adieu. She is as well as when I left you — ^I 
would I could say better. Remember us both affectionately to 
your sweet boy, and trust me for being most truly vours, 

W. C. 



LETTER Lin. 
To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

Weston, Dec. 16, 1792. 
My dear Friend, 

We differ so little that it is pity v/e should 
not agree. The possibility of restoring our diseased Govern- 
ment is, I think, the only point on which we arc not of one mind. 
If you are right, and it cannot be touched in the medical way 
without danger of absolute ruin to the Constitution, keep the Doc- 
tors at a distance, say I — and let us live as long as we can. But 
perhaps physicians might be found of skill sufficient for the pm*- 
pose, were they but as willing as able. Who are they? Not 
those honest blunderers the mob, but our governors themselves. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 57 

As it is in the power of any individual to be honest if he will, any 
body of men are, as it seems to me, equally possessed of the same 
option. For I can never persuade myself to thmk the Avorld so 
constituted by the Author of it, and human society, which is his 
ordinance, so shabby a business, that the buying and selling of votes 
and consciences should be essential to its existence. As to multi- 
plied representation, I know not that I foresee any great advantage 
likely to arise from that. Provided there be but a reasonable num- 
ber of reasonable heads laid together for the good of the nation, 
the end maj" as well be ansv/ered by five hundred as it would be 
by a thousand, and perhaps better. But then they should be honest 
as well as wise ; and in order that they may be so, they should 
put it out of their own power to be otherwise. This they might 
certainly do if they would, and would they do it, I am not con- 
vinced that any gi*cat mischief would ensue. You say, " somebody 
must have influence;" but I see no necessity for it. Let integrity 
of intention and a due share of ability be supposed, and the influ- 
ence will be in its right place ; it will all center in the zeal and good 
of the nation. That will influence their debates and decisions, and 
nothing else ought to do it. You will say, perhaps, that wise men, 
and honest men, as they are supposed, are yet liable to be split into 
almost as many differences of opinion as tliere are individuals ; but 
I rather think not. It is observed of Prince Eugene and the Duke 
of Marlborough, that each always approved and seconded the 
plans and views of the other; and the reason given for it is, that 
they were men of equal ability. The same cause that could make 
two unanimous would make twenty so, and would at least secure a 
majority among as many hundreds. 

As to the reformation of the church, I want none, unless by a 
better prov.'sion for the inferior clergy ; and if that could be 
brought about by emaciating a little some of our too corpulent 
dignitaries, I should be well contented. 

The dissenters, I think, catholics and others, have all a right 
to the privileges of all other Englishmen, because to deprive them 
is persecution, and persecution on any account, but especially on a 
religious one, is an abomination. But, after all, Valeat Respublica s 
I love my countrj', I Icve my king, and I wish peace and prosperity 
io Old England, Adieu. 

W. C. 



VOL. II. 



58 LIFE OF COWPER. 



LETTER LIV. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, Dec. 26, 1792. 
That I may not be silent till my silence 
alarms you, I snatch a moment to tell you that, although toujours 
triste, I am not worse than usual; but my opportunities of wriUng- 
are fiaucified, as perhaps Dr. Johnson would have dared to say, 
and the few that I have are shortened by company. 

Give my love to dear Tom, and thank him for his very appo- 
site extract, which I should be happy, indeed, to turn to any ac- 
count. How often do I wish, in the course of every day, that I 
could be employed once more in poetry ; and how often, of course,. 
that this Miltonic trap had never caught me ! The year ninety- 
two shall stand chronicled in my remembrance as the most me- 
lancholy that I have ever known, except the weeks that I spent at 
Eartham ; and such it has been principally, because being engaged 
to Milton, I felt myself no longer free for any other engagement. 
That ill-fated work, impracticable in itself, has made every thing 
else impracticable. 

* * * * I am very Pindaric, and obliged to be so by 
the hurry of the hour. My friends are come down to break- 
fast. Adieu. W. C. 



LETTER LV. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, Jan. 20, 1793. 
Mt dearest Brother, 

Now I know that you are safe, I treat 
you, as you see, with a philosophical indifference, not acknow- 
ledging your kind and immediate answer to anxious inquiries, till 
it suits my own convenience. I have learned, however, from my 
late solicitude, that not only you, but youi*s, interest me to a de- 
gree that, should any thing happen to either of you, would be very 
inconsistent with my peace. Sometimes I thought that you were 
exti-emely ill, and cnce or twice that you were dead. As often 
some tragedy reached my ear concerning little Tom. " Oh ■vane 
jnentes hominum !" How liable are we to a thousand impositions, 
and how indebted to honest old Time, who never fails to undeceive 
us 1 Whatever you had in prospect, you acted kindly by me not to 
make me partaker of your expectations ; for I have a spii'it, if not 
so sanguine as yours, yet that would have waited for your coming^ 
with anxious impatience, and have been dismally mortified by the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 59 

^sappointment. Had you come, and come without notice too, 
5'ou would not have surprised us moi'e than (as the matter was 
managed) we were surprised at the arrival of your picture. It 
reached us in the evening, after the shutters were closed, at a 
time when a chaise might actually have brought you without giving 
us the least previous intimation. Then it was that Samuel, with 
his cheerful countenance, appeared at the study door, and with a 
voice as cheerhd as his looks, exclaimed, " Mr. Hayley is come, 
Madam !" We both started, and in the same moment cried, 
*' Mr. Hayley come ! And where is he ?" The next moment cor- 
rected our mistake, and finding Mary's voice grow suddenly tre- 
mulous, I turned, and saw her weeping. 

I do nothing, notwithstanding all your exhortations: my idleness 
is proof against them all, or, to speak more truly, my difficulties 
are so. Something indeed I do. I play at push-pin with Homer 
every morning before breakfast, fingering and polishing, as Paris 
did his armour. I have lately had a letter from Dublin on that 
subject, which has pleased me. W. C. 



LETTER LVI. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, Jan. 29, 1793. 
My dearest Hayley, 

I truly sympathize with you under your 
weight of sorrow for the loss of our good Samaritan. But be not 
broken-hearted, my friend ! Remember, the loss of those we love 
is the condition on which we live ourselves; and that he who 
chooses his friends wisely from among the excellent of the earth, 
has a sure ground to hope, concerning them, when they die, that 
a merciful God has made them far happier than they could be 
iiere ; and that we shall join them soon again. This is solid com- 
fort, could we but avail ourselves of it ; but I confess the difficulty 
of doing so. Sorrow is like the deaf adder, " that hears not the 
voice of the charmer, charm he ever so wisely;" and I feel so 
much myself for the death of Austin, that my own chief consolation 
is, that I had never seen him. Live yourself, I beseech you, for I 
have seen so much of you, that I can by no means spare you ; and 
I will live as long as it shall please God to permit me: I know you 
set some value on me, therefore let that promise comfort you ; and 
give us not reason to say, like David's servants, — " We know that 
it would have pleased thee more if all we had died, than this one, 
for whom thou art inconsolable." You have still Romney, and 
<'ar\vai-diue, and Guy, and mc, my poor Mary, and I know not 



GO LIFE OF COWPER. 

how many beside; as many, I suppose, as ever had an opportunity 
oi' spending a day with you. He who has the most friends must 
necessarily lose the most, and he whose friends are numerous as 
yours, may the better spare a part of them. It is a changing, 
transient scene: yet a little while, and this poor di'eam of life will 
be over with all of us. The living, and they who live unhappy — ' 
they ai'e indeed subjects of sorrow. Adieu, my beloved friend. 
Ever yours. W. C. 



LETTER LVII. ; 

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Weston, Feb. 5, l^QJ. 
In this last rcvisal of my work (the Ho- 
tner) I have made a number of small impi'ovements, and am now 
more convinced than ever, having exercised a cooler judgment 
upon it than before I could, that the translation will make its way. 
There must be time for the conquest of vehement and long-rooted 
prejudice; but without much self-partiality, I believe that the 
conquest will be made, and am certain that I should be of the 
same opinion, were the work another man's. I shall soon have 
finislicd the Odyssey, and when I have, will send the corrected 
copy of both to Johnson. Adieu. W. Ct 

LETTER LVIII. 

To Lady HESKETH. 

Wes(on, Feb. 10, l^QS, 

My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry ; 
Neither wit, common sense, nor ideas have I. 

In vain has it been that I have made several attempts to write 
since I left Sussex: unless more comfortable days arrive than I 
Jiave the confidence to look for, there is an end of all writing with 
me. I have no spirits. When the Rose came, I was obliged to 
prepare for his coming by a nightly dose of laudanum — twelve 
drops suffice; but without them I am devoured i)y melancholy. 

Apropos of the Rose ! His wife, in her political notions, is the 
exact counterpart of yourself, — loyal in the extreme. Therefore, 
if you find her thus inclined, when you become acquainted with 
Jier, you must not place her resemblance of yourself to the account 
of her admiration of you, for she is your likeness ready made. In 
tact, v/e are all of one raind about government matters, and not- 
vitlistanding your opinion, the Rose is himself a whig, and I am 



LIFE OF COWPER. 61 

nwhig, and you, my dear, are a tory, and all thetoriesnow-n-days 
call all the whigs republicans. How Ihe deuce you came to be a 
tory is best known to yourself: you have to answer for this novelty 
to the shades of your ancestors, who were always v. higs ever since 
we had any. Adieu. W. C. 



LETTER LLX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

Feb. 17, 1793. 
I have read the critiqu" of my work in 
•ihe Analytical Review, and am happy to have fallen into the hands 
of a critic, rigorous enough indeed, but a scholar, and a niiin of 
sense, and who does not deliberately intend me mischief. 1 am 
better pleased, indeed, that he censures some things, than I should 
have been with unniixt commendation ; for his censure (to use the 
new diplomatic term) will accredit his praises. In his particular 
remarks he is for the most part right, and I shall be tlie ijet.:er for 
them ; but in his general ones I think he asserts too largely, and 
more than he could prove. With respect to inversions in parti- 
cular, I know that they do not abound. Once they did, and I had 
Milton's example for it, not disapproved by Addison. Eu'. on 

» 's remonstrance against them, I expunged the most, and 

in my new edition shall have fewer niil. I know that they give 
dignity, aiid am soriy to part with them ; but, to parody an od 
jii'overb, he who lives in the year ninety -three, must do a in the 
year ninety-three is done by olhers. The same remark I liave lo 
make on his censure of inharmoni-^us lines. I know Uicm to be 
much fewer than he asserts, and not more in number than I ac- 
counted indispensibly necessary to a due variation of c.iJen e. I 
Jiave, however, now, in conformity with modern tas'e (over-much 
delicate in my mind) given to the fir greater number of them a 
ifiow as smooth as oil. A few I retain, and will, in compliment to 
ray own judgment. He thinks me too faithful to compound epithets 
in the introductory lines, and I know his reason. He fears lest the 
English reader should blame Homer, whom he idolizes, though 
hardly more than I, for such constant repetition. Rut them I 
thall not alter. They are necessary to a just reprcsentati >n of 
■tiie original. In the affair of Outis, I shall throw hira flat on his 
back, by an unansvv-erable argument, which I shall give in a note, 
jind with wliich I am furnished by Mrs. Unwin. So much for 
^ivpercriticism, v/hich has run away with all my paper. This 
(Criticj by ihe ^vay, is- ■ ■ I know him by infallible indications. 

W. C. 



62 LIFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER LX. 

To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston, Feb. 23, 1793* 
My eyes, which have long been much 
inflamed, will hardly serve me for Homer, and oblige me to make 
all my letters shoi't. You hav" obliged me much, by sending me 
so speedily the remainder of your notes. I have begun with them 
again, and find them, as before, very much to the purpose. More 
to the purpose they could not have been, had you been poetry 
professor already. I rejoice sincerely in the prospect you have of 
that office, which, whatever maybe your own thoughts of the matter, 
I am sure you will fill with great sufficiency. Would that my 
interest and power to serve you were greater ! One string to my 
bow I have, and one only, which shall not be idle for want of my 
exertions. I thank you, likewise, for your very entertaining notices 
and remarks in the natural way. The hurry in which I write 
would not suifer me to send you many in return, had I many to 
fiend, but only two or three present themselves. 

Frogs will feed on worms. I saw a frog gathering into his gul- 
let an earth-worm as long as himself: it cost him time and labour, 
but at last he succeeded. 

Mrs. Unwin and I, crossing a brook, saw from the foot-bridge 
somewhat at the bottom of the water, which had the appearance 
of a fiowel-. Observing attentively, we found that it consisted of 
a circular assemblage of minnows ; their heads all met in a center, 
and their tails diverging at equal distances, and being elevated 
above their heads, gave them the appearance of a flower half 
bloAvn.- One was longer than the rest, and as often as a straggler 
came in sight, he quitted his place to pursue him, and having 
driven him away, he returned to it again, no other minnow offer- 
ing to take it in his absence. This we saw him do several times. 
The object that had attached them all was a dead minnow, which 
they seemed to be devouring. 

After a very rainy day, I saw on one of the flower borders 
Avhat seemed a long hair, but it had a waving twining motion. 
Considering more nearly, I found it alive, and endued with spon- 
taneity, but could not discover at the ends of it either head or tail, 
or any distinction of parts. I carried it into the house, when the 
air of a v/arm room dried and killed it presently. 

W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 63 

LETTER LXL 
To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, Feb. 24, 1793. 
Yoiu- letter, so full of kindness, and so 
exactly in unison with my own feelings for you, should have had, 
as it deserved to have, an earlier answer, had I not been perpe- 
tually tormented with inflamed eyes, which are a sad hindcrance 
to me in every thing. But, to make amends, if I do not send you 
an early answer, I send you at least a speedy one, being obliged to 
write as fast as my pen can trot, that I may shorten the time of 
poring upon paper as much as possible. Homer, too, has been 
another hinderance, for always when I can see, which is only dur- 
ing about two hours in a mornuig, and not at all by candle light, I 
devote myself to him, being in haste to send him a second time to 
the press, that nothing may stand in the way of Milton. By the 
way, where are my dear Tom's remarks, which I long to have, 
and must have soon, or they will come too late ? 

Oh j'ou rogue, what would you ^\\e to have such a dream about 
Milton, as I had about a Aveek since? I dreamed that, bei'ig in a 
house in the city, and with much company, looking towards the 
lower end of the room from the upper end of it, I descried a 
figure, which I immediately knew to be Milton's. He was very 
gravely, but very neatly attired in the fashion of his day, and had 
a countenance which filled me with those feelings that an affec- 
tionate child has for a belo\'ed father ; such, for instance, as Tom 
has for you. My first thought was wonder, where he could have 
been concealed so many years : my second, a transport of joy to 
find him still alive : my third, another transport tp find myself in 
his company ; and my fourth, a resolution to accost him : I did so, 
and he received me with a complacence, in which I saw equal 
sweetness and dignity. I spoke of his Paradise Lost, as every 
man must who is worthy to speak of it at all, and told him a long 
story of the manner in which it affected me, when I first discovered 
it, being at that time a school-boy. He answered me by a smile, 
and a gentle inclination of his head. He then grasped my hand af- 
fectionately, and with a smile that charmed me, said, " well, you 
for your part will do well also." At last, recollecting his great age, 
(for I understood him to be two hundred years old) I feared that I 
might fatigue him by much talking. I took my leave, and he took 
his with an air of the most perfect good breeding. His person, 
his features, his manner, were all so jierfectly characteristic, that 
I am persuaded an apparition of him could not represent him more 
completely. This may be said to have been one of the dreams of 
Pindus, may it not ? 



64 LIFE OF COWPER. 

How truly I rejoice that you have recovered Guy : that man 
won my heart the moment I saw him : give my love to him, and 
tell him I am truly giad he is alive again. 

There is much sweetness in those lines from the Sonneteer of 
Avon, and not a little in dear Tom's ; an earnest, I trust, of good 
tilings to come. 

With Mary's kind love, I must now conclude myself, my dear 
brother, ever yours, LIPPUS. 



LETTER LXIL 
To Mr. THOMAS HAYLEY. 

Weston, March 14, 1793. 

My DEAR LITTLE CrITIC, 

I thank you heartily for your observations, 
on which I set a higher value, because they have instructed me as 
much, and have entertained me more, than all the other strictures 
of our public judges in these matters. Perhaps I am not much 
more pleased with shameless nvolf, Sec. than you. But what is to 
be done, my little man ? Coarse as the expressiors are, they are 
no more than equivalent to those of Homev. The invective of the 
ancients was never tempered wi.h good manners, as your papa can 
tell you ; and my business, you know, is not to be more pohte than 
my author, but to represent him as closely as I can. 

Dishonour 'd foul I have wiped away, for the reason you give^ 
•which is a very just one, and the present reading is this : 

Who had dared dishonour thus 
The life itself, &c. 

Your objection to k'mdler of the fires of heaven I had the good 
fortune to anticipate, and expunged the dirty ambiguity some time 
since, wondering not a little that I had ever admitted it. 

The fault you find v>'ith the two first verses of Nestor's speech 
discovers such a degree of just discernment, that but for your pa- 
pa's assurance to the contrary, I must have suspected him as the 
author of that remark. Much as I should have respected it, if it 
had been so, I value it, I assure you, my little friend, still more as 
yours. In the new edition, the passage will be found thus altered } 

Alas I great sorrow falls on Greece to-day. 
Priam, and Priam's sons, with all in Troy — 
Oh ! how will they exult, and in their hearts 
Triumph, once hearing of this bi'oil between 
The prime of Greece, in council, and in arn>.s \ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 65 

U'here the word reel suggests to you the idea of a drunken 
mountain, it performs the service to which I destined it. It is a 
bold metaphor ; but justified by one of the subHmest passages iu 
scripture, compared with the subhmity of which even that of 
Homer suffers humiliation. 

It is God himself, who speaking, I think, by the prophet Isaiah, 
says, 

" The earth shall I'eel to and fro Hkc a drunkard." 

With equal boldness in tlic same scripture, the poetry of which 
was never equalled, mountains are said to skip, to break out into 
singing, and tlie fields to clap their hands. I intend, therefore, 
that my Olympus shall be still tipsy. 

The accuracy of your last remark, in which you convicted me 
t)f a bull, delightsme. A fig for all critics but you ! The blockheads 
could not find it. It shall stand thus : 

First spake Polydamas 

Homer was more upon his guard than to commit such a bluudcr^ 
for he says, 

And now, my dear little censor, once more accept my thanks^ 
I only regret that your strictures are so few, being just and sensible 
as they are. 

Tell your papa that he shall hear from me soon: accept mihe, 
and my dear invalid's affectionate remembrances. Ever yours, 

W. C* 



* Note by the Editor. — This letter may be regarded as a retiarkable proof of the great 
poet's indulgent sweetness of temper, in favouring the literary talents of a child. A good - 
natiired reader will hardly blame the parental partiality to a dear departed scholar, which in- 
duces me to insert in this note the letter Cowper answered so kindly — a letter that readers, 
accustomed to contemplate the compositions of childhood, may consider, perhaps, as a curio- 
iity, when they are assured, as they are with perfect truth, that every syllable of the letter, 
and of the criticisms annexed to it, were the voluntary and uncorrected production of a boy 
whose age was little more than twelve years. 

To WILLIAM COWFER, Esquire. 

Ecirfhjm, March 4, 1793. 
Honoured Ki/is of Bards ! 

Since you deign to demand the observations of an humble 

and unexperienced servant of yours, on a work of one who is so much his superior, (as he is 

ever ready to serve you with all his might) behold what you demand! But let me desire yott 

»ot to censure mc for my unskilful, aad, perhaps, (as they will undoubtedly appear to you) 

VOL. II. K 



6^ LIFE OF COWTPER. 

LETTER LXIIL 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 
Mr DEAR Brother, Westo?i, March 19, 1793^ 

I am so busy every morning before 
breakfast (my only opportunitj') stalking and strutting in Homeric 
stilts, that you ought to account it an instance of marvellous grace 
and favour that I condescend to write even to ycu. Sometimes I 
am seriously almost crazed with the multiplicity of matters before 
me, and the little or no time that I have for them ; and sometimes 
I repose myself, after the f?.tigue of that distraction, on the pillow 
of despair ; a pillow which has often served me in time of need, 
and is become, by frequent use, if not very comfortable, at least 
convenient. So reposed, I laugh at the world and say, " yes, you 
may gape and expect both Homer and Milton from me, but I'll be 
hanged if you ever get them," 

In Homer you must know I am advanced as far as the fifteenth 
book of the Iliad, leaving nothing behind me that can reasonably 
offend the most fastidious ; and I design him for public appearance 
in his new dress as soon as possible, for a reason which any poet 
may guess, if he will but thrust his hand into his pocket. 

You forbid me to tantalize ycu with an invitation to Weston, 
and yet invite me to Eartham. No, no; there is no such happi- 
ness in store for me at present. Had I rambled at all, I was under 
promise to all my dear mother's kindred to go to Norfolk, and they 
are dvingto see ine: but I have told them that die they must, for I 
cannot go ; and ergo, as you will perceive, can go no where else. 

Thanks for Mazarine's epitaph : it is full of witty paradox, and 
is written with a force and severity which sufficiently bespeak the 
author. I account it an inestimable curiosity, and shall be happy, 
■when time shall serve, with your aid, to make a good translation 
of it. But that will be a stubborn business. Adieu. The clock, 
strikes eight — And now for Homer.. 

W. C. 

ridicnions observations ; but be so kind as to receive them as a mark of respectful affection 

from your obedient servant, 

THOMAS HAYLEY. 

Book. Line. 

i. 1S4. 1 cannot reconcile mvself to these expressions, viz. " Ah, cloth'd with im- 

]?i putience," &c. and " shameless wolf," and (1%) " face of fiiat." 

SOS " Uishonour'd fonl"i3, in my opinion, an iincltanly expression. 

651 •' Reel'd," I iliink, makes it appeal as if Olvmpus w.is Jrunk. 

749 " Kindlf-r of the fires in heaven," I mink, makes Jupiter appear too niucR 

like a lamp- lighter. 
ii. 3 17 to 3 19— These lines are, in my opinion, below the elevated genius of Mr.Cowper. 
-..viii, 300 to;J04— This appears to me rather IriUi, since inline 30Q you say " no one tat," 
and in line 304, " Polydamas rose." 



LIFE OF COWPER. «r 

LETTER LXn\ 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge, March 27, 1793, 
My dear Friend, 

I must send yfu a line of congratulation 
on the event of your transnction with Johnson, lince ycu. I know, 
partake with me in the pleasure I receive from ic. Few of my 
concerns have been so happily concluded. I am now satisfied with 
my bookseller, as I have substantial cause to be, and accrunt my- 
self in good hands ; a circumstance as pleasant to me as any other 
part of the business ; for I love dearly to be able to confide, with 
all my heart, in those with whom I am connected, of what kind 
soever the connection may be. 

The question of printing or not printing the alterations seems 
difficult to decide. If they are not printed, I shall, perhaps, dis- 
oblige some purchasers of the first edition ; and if they are, many 
others of them, perhaps a great majority, will never care about 
them. As far as I have gone I have made a fair copy, and when 
I have finished the whole, will send them to Johnson, together with 
the interleaved volumes. He will see, in a few minutes, what it 
•will be best to do, and by his judgment T shall be determined. 
The opinion to which I most incline is, that they ought to be 
printed separately, for they are many of them rather long, here 
and there a whole speech, or a whole simile ; and the verbal and 
lineal variations are so numerous, that altogether, I apprehend, 
they will give a new air to the work, and, I hope, a much im- 
proved one. 

I forgot to say in the proper place, that some notes, although, 
but very few, I have added already, and may perhaps see here and 
there opportunity for a few more. But notes being little wanted, 
especially by people at all conversant with classical literature, as 
most readers of Homer arc, I am persuaded that, were they nume- 
rous, they would be deemed an incumberance. I shall write to 
Johnson soon, perhaps to-morrow, and then shall say the same 
thing to him. 

In point of health we continue much the same. Our united love, 
and many thanks for your prosperous ncgociations, attend yourself 
and whole family, and especially my little name-sake. Adieu. 

W. C. 



'^' LTFE OF COWPER. 

LETTER LXV. 
To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. 

T/ie Lodge, Alml 11, 1793, 
My dearest Johnny, 

The long muster-roll of my great and 
small ancestors, I signed and dated, and sent up to Mr. Blue- 
mantle, on Monda}^, according to your desire. Such a pompous 
affair, drawn out for my sake, reminds me of the old fable of the 
mountain in parturition and a mouse the produce. Rest undis- 
turbed, say i, their lordly, ducal, and royal dust \ Had they left 
me something handsome, I shovild have respected them moi*e. 
Bvit perhaps they did not know that such a one as I should have 
the honour to be numbered among their descendants. Well, I 
have a little bookseller that makes me some amends for their de- 
ficiency. He has made me a pi-esent ; an act of liberality which 
I take every opportunity to blazon, as it well deserves. But you, 
I suppose, have learned it already from Mr. Rose. 

Fear not, m.y man. You will acquit yourself very well, I dare 
say, both in standing for your degree, and when you have gained 
it. A little tremor, and a little shamefacedness in a stripling, like 
3'-ou, are recommendations rather than otherwise; and so they 
ought to be, being symptoms of an ingenuous mind, rather unfre- 
quent in this age of brass. 

What you say of your determined purpose, with Ciod's help, to 
take up the cross and despise the shame, gives us both real plea- 
sure. In our pedigree is found one, at least, who did it before 
you. Do you the like ; and you will meet him in heaven, as surje 
as the scripture is the word of God. 

The quarrel that the world has with evangelical men and doc- 
trines, they would have with a host of angels in the human form ; 
for it is the quarrel of owls with sunshine, of ignorance with di- 
vine illumination. 

Adieu, my dear Johnny. We shall expect you with earnest do- 
jiirc at your coming, and receive you with much delight. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXVJ. 
io \MLLTAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, Ajinl 23, 179Z. 
My dear Friend and Bkothkr, 

Better late than never, and better a little 
tlian none at all ! Had I been at liberty to consult my inclinations. 



LIFE OF COWPER. «# 

1 Avould have answered j^oiir truly kind and affectionate letter im- 
ir.cdiately. But I am the Imsiest man aHve, and when this epistle 
is dispatched, you avIU be the only one of my correspondents to 
■whom I shall not be indebted. While I write this, my poor Mary 
sits mute ; which I cannot well bear, and which, together with 
want of time to write much, will have a curtailing effect on mj 
epistle. 

My only studying time is still given to Homer, not to correction 
and amendment of him, for that is all over, but to writing notes. 
Johnson has expressed a wish for some, that the unlearned may 
be a little illuminated concerning classical story and the mythology 
of the ancients ; and his behaviour to me has been so liberal that 
lean refuse him nothing. Poking into the old Greek commenta- 
tors blinds me. But it is no matter : I am the more like Homer. 

Ever yours, my dearest Hay ley, W. C. 



LETTER LXVIT. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

My DEAR Friend, May 5, 179S. 

My delay to answer your last kind letter, 
to which likewise you desired a speedy reply, must have seemed 
rather difhcult to explain on any other supposition than that of ill-. 
ness. But illness has not been the cause, although, to say the truth, 
I cannot boast of having been lately very well. Yet has not this 
been the cause of my silence, but your own advice, verj' proper, 
and earnestly given tome, to proceed in the revisal of Homer. To 
this it is owing that, instead of giving an hour or two before 
breakfast to my correspondents, I allot that time entirely to my 
studies. I have nearly given the last touches to the poetry, and 
am now busied, far more laboriously, in writing notes at the request 
of my honest bookseller, transmitted to me in the first instance by 
you, and afterwai-d repeated by himself. I am, therefore, deep 
in the old scholia, and have advanced to the latter part of Iliad 
nine, explaining, as I go, such passages as may be difficult to un- 
learned readers, and such only • for notes of that kind are the 
notes that Johnson desired. I find it a more laborious task than the 
translation was, and shall be heartily glad when it is over. In 
the mean time, all the letters I receive remain unanswered, or if 
they receive an answer, it is always a short one. Such this must 
be. Johnny is here, having flown over London. 

Homer, I believe,, will make a much more respectable appear- 
ance than before. Johnson now thinks it will be right to make a 
separate impression of the amendments. 
^ W. C. 



?• LIFE OF COWPER* 

I breakfast every morning on seven or eight pages of the Greek 
commentators: for so much I am obliged to read in order to 
select, perhaps, three or four short notes for the readers of my 
translation. 

Homer is indeed a tie upon me that must not, on any account, 
be broken till all his demands are satisfied : though I have fancied, 
while the revisal of the Odyssey was at a distance that it would ask 
less labour in the finishing, it is not unlikely that, when I take it 
actually in hand, I may find myself mistaken. Of this, at least, I 
am sure, that uneven verse abounds much more in it than it once 
did in the liiad. Yet to the latter the critics objected on that ac- 
count, though to the former never ; perhaps because they had not 
read it. Hereafter they shall not quarrel with me on that score. 
The Iliad is now all smooth turnpike, and I will take equal care 
that there shall be no jolts in the Odyssey. 

LETTER LXVin. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 7, 1793. 

My DEAREST COZ. 

You have thought me long silent, and so 
have many otliers. In fact, I have not for many months written 
punctually to any but yourself and Hayley. My time, the little I 
have, is so engrossed v/ith Homer, that I have at this moment a 
bundle of unanswered letters by me, and letters likely to be so. 
Thou knowest, I dare say, what it is to have a head, weary with 
thinking. Mine is so fatigued by breakfast-time, three days out of 
four, I am utterly incapable of sitting down to my desk again for 
any purpose whatever. 

I am glad I have convinced thee, at last, that thou art a tory. 
Your friend's definition of whig and tory may be just, for aught I 
know, as far a,s the latter are concerned ; but, respecting the for- 
mer I think him mistaken. There is no true whig who wishes 
all power in the hands of his own party. The division of it, which 
the lawyers call tripartite, is exactly what he desires ; and he 
would have neither King, Lords nor Commons unequally trusted, 
or in the smallest degree prcd-^minant. Such a whig am I, and 
such whigs are the true friends of the constitution. 

Adieu, my dear : I am dead with weariness. 

W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. Tt 



LETTER LXTX. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

May 21, 1793. 
My dearest Brother, 

You must either think me extremely idle 
or extremely busy, that I have made ycur last very kind letter 
■wait so very long fcr an answer. The truth, however, is, that I 
am neither ; hut have had time enrugh to have scribbled to you, 
had I been able to scribble at all. To explain this riddle I must 
give you a short account of my proceedings. 

I rise at six every morning, and fag till near eleven, when I 
breakfast. The consequence is, that I am so exhausted as not to be 
able to write Avhen the opportunity offers. You will say, ' Break- 
fast before you work, and then your work v/iil not fatigue you.' I 
answer, ' Perhaps I might, and your counsel would probably prove 
beneficial; but I cannot spare a moment for eating in the early 
part of the morning, having no other time for study.' This un- 
easiness, of which I complain, is a proof that I am somewhat 
stricken in years ; and there is no other c?use by Avhich I can ac- 
count for it, since I go early to bed, always between ten and eleven, 
and seldom fail to sleep well. Certain it is, ten years since I could 
have done as much, and sixteen years ago did actually much more, 
without suffering fatigue or anv inconvenience from my labours. 
How insensibly old age steals on, and how often is it actually ar- 
lived before we suspect it ! Accident alone, some occurrence that 
suggests a comparison of our former with our present selves, 
affords the discovery. Well, it is alwaj's good to be undeceived, 
especially on an article of such importance. 

Tliere has been a book lately published, entitled, Man as he is. 
I have heard a high character of it, as admirably written, and 
am informed that, for that reason, and because it inculcates whig 
pi-inciples, it is by many imputed to you. I contradicted this re- 
port, assuring my inf'^rmant that had it been yours I must have 
known it, for that vou hnvebi^und yourself to make me your father- 
confessor on all such wicked occasions, and not to conceal from me 
even a murder, should you happen to commit one. 

I will not trouble you at present to send me any more books with 
a view to mv notes on Homer. I am not without hopes that Sir 
John Throckmrirton, who is expected here from Venice in a short 
time, mav bring me Villoison's edition of the Od"ssey. He cer- 
tainly will, if he found it published, and that alone will be instat 
ewnimn. 

Adieu, my dearest brother. Give my love to Tom, and thank 



n LIFE OF COWPER. 

him for his Ijouk, of which I believe I need not have deprived him, 
intending that my readers shall detect the occult instruction con« 
tained in Homer's stories for themselves. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXX. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Tkc Lodge^ June 1, 1793. 
My dearest Coz. 

You will not, you say, come to us now ; 
and you tell us not when you will. These assignations sine die are 
such shadowy things, that I can neither grasp nor get any comfort 
from them. Know you not that hope is the next best thing to en- 
joyment ? Give us, then, a hope, and a determinate time for that 
hope to fix on, and we will endeavour to be satisfied. 

Johnny is gone to Cambridge, called thither to take his degree, 
and is much missed by me. He is such an active little fellow in 
my service that he cannot be otherwise. In three weeks, how- 
ever, I shall hope to have him again for a fortnight. I have had a 
letter from him, containing an incident which has given birth to 
&e following. 

I'o A YOUNG FRIEND, 

Ov his arrival at Cambridge wet, when no rain hsiCifallen therr* 

If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found. 
While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, 
Might fitly represent the church, endow'd 
With heavenly gifts, to heathens not allow'd; 
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, 
Thy locks werf wet, when other locks were dry. 
Heav'n grant us half the omen ! may we see, 
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee I 

These are spick and span. Johnny himself has not yet seen them. 
By the way, he has filled your book completely ; and I will giA^e 
thee a guinea if thou wilt search thy old book for a couple of songs, 
and two or three other pieces of which I know thou madest copies 
at the Vickarage, and which I have lost. The songs I know are 
pretty good, and I would fain recover them. 

W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 75 

LETTER LXXI. 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

Weston, Jzine 6, ir93. 
My dear Sir, 

I seize a passing moment merely to 
say, that I feel for your distresses and sincerely pity you, and I 
shall be happy to learn from your next, tliat your sister's amend- 
ment has superseded the necessity you feared, of a journey to 
London. Your candid account of the effect that your afflictions 
have both on your spirits and temper, I can perfectly understand, 
having laboured much in that fire myself, and perhaps more than 
any man. It is in such a school, however, that we must learn, if 
we ever truly learn it, the natural depravity of the human heart, 
and of our own in particular ; together with the consequence that 
necessarily follows such wretched premises — our indispensible need 
of the atonement, and our inexpressible obligations to him who 
made it. This reflection cannot escape a thinking mind, looking 
back on those ebullitions of fretfulness and impatience, to which it 
has yielded in a season of great affliction. 

Having lately had company who left us only on the fourth, I 
have done nothing — nothing, indeed, since my return from Sussex, 
except a trifle or two which it was incumbent upon me to Write, 
Milton hangs in doubt; neither spirits nor opportunity suffice me 
for that labour. I regret continually that I ever suflfered myself 
to be persviaded to undertake it. The most that I hope to effect is 
a complete revisal of my own Homer. Johnson told my friend, 
who has just left me, that it will begin to be reviewed in the next 
Analytical, and that \\ehoJied the review of it would not offend me. 
By this I understand that if I am not offended it will be owing more 
to my own equanimity than to the mildness of the critic. So be it I 
He will put an opportunity of victory over myself into my hands, 
and I will endeavour not to lose it. Adieu. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXII. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, June 20, 179% 

Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, 
Worthier to stand for ever, if tliey could, 
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood, 

For back of royal elephant to bear ! 

VOL. II. L 



TA LIFE OF COWPER, 

Oh for permission from the skies to share, 
Much to my own, though Httle to thy good, 
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood) 

A partnership of literary ware I 

But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth 
To drudge in descant dry, on others' lays ; 

Bards, I acknowledge, of unequal worth! 
But what is commentator's happiest praise? 

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, 
Which they who need them use, and then despise. 

What remains for me to say on this subject, my dear brother- 
bard, I will say in prose. There are other impediments which I 
could not comprize within the bounds of a sonnet. 

My poor Mary's infirm condition makes it impossible for me, 
at present, to engage in a work such as you propose. My thoughts 
are not sufficiently free, nor have I, or can I, by any means, finct 
opportunity: added to which comes a difficulty, which, though 
you are not at all aware of it, presents itself to me under a most 
forbidding appearance: can you guess it? No, not you: neither, 
perliaps, will you be able to imagine tliat such a difRculty can pos- 
sibly subsist. If your hair begins to bristle, stroak it down again, 
for there is no need why it should erect itself. It concerns me, 
not you. I know myself too well not to know that I am nobody in 
verse, unless in a corner, and alone, and unconnected in my ope- 
rations. This is not owing to want of love for you, my brother^ 
or the most consummate confidence in you ; for I have both in a 
degree that has not been exceeded in the experience of any friend 
you have, or ever had. But I am so made up ; I will not enter into 
a metaphysical analysis of my strange composition in order to 
detect the true cause of this evil ; but, on a general view of the 
matter, I suspect that it proceeds from that shyness, which has 
been my effectual and almost fatal hinderance on many other im- 
portant occasions ; and which I should feel, I well know, on this, 

to a degree that would perfectly cripple me. No! I shall 

neither do, nor attempt any thing of consequence more, unless my 
poor Mary get better — nor even then, unless it should please God, 
to give me another nature — in concert with any man ; I could not, 
even with my own father or brother, were they now alive. Small 
game must serve me at present, and till I ha\e done with Homer 
and Miiton, a sonnet, or some such matter must content me. Tli,s> 



LIFE OF COWPER. 75 

tilinost that I aspire to, (and h-eaven knows with how feeble a 
iiope) is to write, at some better opportunity, and when my 
hands are free. The four Ages, Thus I have opened my heart 
unto thee, W. C. 



LETTER LXXm. 
To WILLLVM HAYLEY, Esquire. 
My dearest Brother, Weston^ Juhj 7, 1793, 

If the excessive heat of this day, which 
forbids me to do any thing else, will permit me to scribble to you, 
I shall rejoice. To do this is a pleasure to me at all times, but 
|o do it now, a double one ; because I am in haste to tell you how 
Kiuch I am delight-ed with your projected quadruple alliance, and 
to assure you, that if it please God to afford mc health, spirits, 
ability, and leisure, I will not fail to devote them all to the pro- 
duction of my quota, The four Ages, 

You are very kind to humour me as you do, and had need be 
a little touched yourself with all my oddities, that you may knoAV 
how to administer to mine. All whom I love do so, and I believe 
it to be impossible to love heartily those who do not. People must 
not do me good in their way, but in my own^ and then they do me 
good indeed. My pride, my ambition, and my friendship for you, 
and the interest I take in my own dear self, will all be consulted 
and gratified by an arm-in-ai'm appearance with you in public; 
and I shall v/ork with more zeal and assiduity at Homer ; and 
>vhen Homer is finished at Milton, with the prospect of such a 
coalition before me. But what shall I do with a multitude of small 
pieces ft-om which I intended to select the best, and adding them 
to The four Ages, to have made a volume? Will there be room 
for them upon your plan? I have re-touched them, and will re- 
touch them again. Some of them will suggest pretty devices to a 
designer, and, in short, I have a desire not to lose them. 

I am at this moment, with all the imprudence natural to poets, 
expending nobody knows what, in embellishing my premises, or 
rather the premises of my neighbour Courteney, which is more 
poetical still. I have built one summer-house already with the 
boards of my old study, and am building another, spick and span 
as they say. I have also a stone-cutter now at work, setting a 
bust of my dear old Grecian on a pedestal ; and beside all this, I 
meditate still more, tliat is to be done in the autumn. Your project, 
tlierefore, is most ojjportune; as any project must needs be that 
has so distinct a tendency to put money into the pocket of oj\e so 
likeij- to want it. 



f^6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Ah brother poet ! send me of your shade, 
And bid the zephyrs hasten to my aid; 
Or, like a worm unearth'd at noon, I go, 
Dispatcli'd by sunshine, to the shades below. 

My poor Mary is as well as the heat will allow her to be, and 
whether it be cold or sultry, is always affectionately mindful of you 
and yours. Adieu. W. C. 



LETTER LXXIV. 
To the Reverend Mr. GREATHEED. 

July 23, 1793, 
I was not without some expectation of a 
line from you, my dear sir, though you did not promise me one at 
jour departure; and am happy not to have been disappointed: 
still happier to learn that you and Mrs. Greatheed are well, and 
so deliglitfully situated. Your kind offer to us of sharing with you 
the house which you at present inhabit, added to the short but 
lively description of the scenery that surrounds it, want nothing 
to win our acceptance, should it please God to give Mrs. LTnwin a 
little more strength, and should I be ever master of my time, so as 
to be able to gratify myself with what would please me most. But 
many have claims upon us, and some who cannot absolutely be 
said to have any, would yet complain and think themselves slight- 
ed, should we prefer rocks and caves to them. In short, we are 
called so many ways, that these numerous demands are likely to 
operate as a rttnora., and to keep us fixt at home. Here we can 
occasionally have the pleasure of yours and Mrs. Greatheed's 
company, and to have it here must, I believe, content us. Hayley, 
in his last letter, gives me reason to expect the pleasure of seeing 
him and his dear boy Tom in the autumn. He will use all his 
eloquence to draw us to Eartham again. My cousin Johnny of 
Norfolk holds me under promise to make my first trip thither, 
and the very same promise I have hastily made to visit Sir John 
and Lady Throckmorton, at Bucklands. How to reconcile such 
clashing pi'omises, and give satisfaction to all, would puzzle me, 
had I nothing else to do ; and therefore, as I say, the result will 
probaijly be, that we shall find ourselves obliged to go no where, 
since we cannot every where. 

**************** 
Wishing you both safe at home again, p.nd to see you as soon as 
tnay be here, I remain affectionately yours, 

w. c. 



•/ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 77 

LETTER LXXV. 
To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, July, 24, 1^93, 

I liave been vexed with myself, my clearest 
brotJier, and with every thing about me, not excepting even Ho- 
mer himself, that I have been obliged so long to delay an answer to 
your last kind letter. If I listen any longer to calls another way, 
I shall hardly be able to tell you how happy we are in the hope of 
seeing you in the autumn, before the autumn will have arrived. 
Thrice welcome will you and your dear boy be to us, and the 
longer jou will afford us your company, the more welcome. I 
have set up the head of Homer, on a famous fine pedestal, and a 
very majestic appearance he makes. I am now puzzled about a 
motto, and wish you to decide for me between two, one of which 
I have composed myself, a Greek one, as follows : 

Oi/KOju.si o HTOi oivrip «|)9tToy atsv sx'^- 

The other is my own translation of a passage in the Odyssey, 
the original of which I have seen used as a motto to an engraved 
head of Homer many a time. 

The present edition of the lines stands thus : 

Him partially the muse. 
And dearly lov'd, yet gave him good and ill : 
She quench'd his sight, but gave him strains divine. 

Tell me, by the way, (if you ever had any speculations on the sub- 
ject) what is it you suppose Homer to have meant in particular, 
when he ascribed his blindness to the muse? for that he speaks of 
himself, under the name of Demodocus, in the eighth book, I be- 
lieve, is by all admitted. How could the old bai'd study himself 
blind, when books were either few, or none at all ? And did he 
■write his poems ? If neither were the cause, as seems reasonable 
to imagine, how could he incur his blindness by such means as 
could be justly imputable to the muse ? Would mere thinking blind 
him r I want to know : 

" Call up some spirit ft-om the vasty deep !" 

I said to my Sam* — " Sam, build me a slicd in the garden, witli 

* A very a/iectJoii3te woi tliy domrscx who attciideJ his mastci into Sussex. 



rs IJFE OF C0WPER. 

any thing tliat you can find, and make it rude and rougli like on* 
of those at Eartham." " Yes, Sir," says Sam, and straightway lay- 
ing his own noddle and the carpenter's noddle together, has built 
me a thing fit for Stow gardens. Is not this vexatious ? I threaten 
to inscribe it tlius ; 

Beware of building! I intended 
- Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended. 

But my Mary says. I shall break Sam's heart, and the carpen- 
ter's too, and will not consent to it. Poor Mary sleeps but ill* 
How have you lived who cannot bear a sun-beam ? 

Adieu, my dearest Hay ley, W. C. 



LETTER LXXVI. 
To Lady HESKETH. 

Weston, August 11, 1793. 
My dearest Coz. 

I am glad that my poor and hasty at- 
tempts to express some little civility to Miss Fanshaw, and the 
amiable Count, have your and her approbation. The lines 
addressed to her wei'e not what I would have made them, but lack 
of time, a lack which always presses me, would not suffer me to 
improve them. Many thanks for her letter, which, were my me- 
rits less the subject of it, I should, without scruple, say is an excel- 
lent one. She writes with the force and accuracy of a person 
skilled in more languages than are spoken in the present day, as I 
doubt not that she is. I perfectly approve the theme she recom- 
mends to me, but am at present so totally absorbed in Homer, that 
all I do beside is ill done, being hurried over j and I would not ex- 
ecute ill a subject of her recommending. 

I shall v,'atch the walnut-trees with more attention than they who 
eat them, which I do in some hope, though you do not expressly 
say so, that when their threshing-time arrives we shall see you 
here. I am now going to paper my new study, and in a short 
time it will be fit to inhabit. 

Lady Spencer has sent me a present from Rome, by the hands 
of Sir John Throckmorton — engravings of Odyssey subjects, after 
figures by Flaxman, a statuary at present resident there, of high 
repute, and much a friend of Hayley's. 

Thou livest, my dear, I acknowledge, in a very fine country, 
but they have spoiled it by building London in it. Adieu. 

vv. c. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 79 

LETTER LXX\TI. 
To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esquire* 

Weston, August 15, liTSS* 

Instead of a pound or two, spending a mint 
Must serve nie at least, I believe, with a hint. 
That building and building a man may be driven 
At last out of doors, and have no house to live in. 

Besides, my dearest brother, they have not only built for me 
what I did not want, but have ruined a notable tetrastic by doing 
so. I had written one which I designed for a hermitage, and it 
will by no means suit the fine and pompous affair which they have 
made instead of one. So that, as a poet, I am every way afflicted ; 
made poorer than I need have been, and robbed of my verses. 
What case can be more deplorable ? 

You must not suppose me ignorant of v/hat Flaxman has done, or 
that I have not seen it, or that I am not actually in possession of it, 
at least of the engravings which you mention. In fact, I have had 
them more than a fortnight. Lad}' Dowager Spencer, to whom I 
inscribed my Odyssey, and who was at Rome when Sir John 
Throckmorton was there, charged him with them as a present to 
me, and arriving here lately he executed his commission. Romney, 
I doubt not, is right in his judgment of them : he is an artist him- 
self, and cannot easily be mistaken ; and I take his opinion as an 
oracle, the rather, because it coincides exactly with my own. The 
figures are highly classical, antique, and elegant ; especially that 
of Penelope, who, whether she wakes or sleeps, must necessarily 
chai-m all beholders. 

Your scheme of embellishing my Odyssey with these plates is 
a kind one, and the fruit of your benevolence to me ; but John- 
son, I fear, will hardly stake so much money as the cost would 
amount to, on a work, the fate of which is at present uncertain. 
Nor could we adorn the Odyssey in this splendid manner, unless 
we had similar ornaments to bestow on the Iliad. Such, I pre- 
sume, are not ready, and much time must elapse, even if Flax- 
man should accede to the plan, before he could possibly prepare 
them. Happy, indeed, should I be to see a work of mine so nobly 
accompanied, but should that good fortune ever attend me, it can- 
not take place till the third or fourth edition shall afford the oc- 
casion. This I regret, and I regret too, that you will have seen 
them before I can have an opportunity to show them to you. Hex'e 
is six-pence for you if you will abstain from the sight of them whilu 
you are in London. 



80 LIFE OF COWPER. 

The sculptor ? — nameless, though once dear to fame 5 
But this man beai'S an everlasting name.* 

So I purpose it shall stand ; and on the pedestal, when you comCj 
in that form you will find it. The added line from the Odyssey is 
charming, but the assumption of sonship to Homer seems too dar- 
ing. Suppose it stood thus : — - 

I am not sure that this would be clear of the same objection, and 
it departs from the text still more. 

With my poor Mary's best love, and our united wishes to see 
vnu here, I remain,*mv dearest brother, ever yours, 

w. c* 

LETTER LXXVm. 

To Mrs. COURTENEY. 

TVesion, August 20, 1793. 
My dearest Catharina is too reasonable, 
I know, to expect news from me, who live on the outside of the 
world, and know nothing that passes within it. The best news 
is, that though you are gone, you are not gone for ever, as once I 
supposed you were, and said that we sliould probably meet no 
more. Some news, however, we have ; but then I conclude that you 
have already received it from the Doctor, and that thought almost 
deprives me of all courage to i-elate it. On the evening of the 
feast. Bob Archer's house affording, I suppose, the best room for 
tlie purpose, all the lads and lasses who felt themselves disposed 
to dance, assembled there. Long time , they danced, at least long 
time they did something a little like it, when at last the company 
having retired, the fiddler aslied Bob for a lodging. Bob replied 
that his beds were all full of his own family, but if he chose it 
he vv'ould show him a hay-cock, where he miglit sleep as sound as in 
any bed whatever. So forth they went together, and when they 
reached the place, the fiddler knocked down Bob and demanded 
his money. But happily for Bob, though he might be knocked 
down, and actually was so, yet he could not possibly be robbed, 
having nothing.- The fiddler, therefore, having amused himself 
with kicking and beating him as he lay, as long as he saw good, 
left him, and has never been heard of since, nor inquired after 
indeed, being no doubt the last man in the world whom Bob wishes 
to see ae-ain. 

* A (raiislat'.on of CoM'[ier's Gicek vcr:ei on his bust of Homer. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 81 

fey a letter from Hayky to-day, I learn that Flaxman, to 
Svhom we are indebted for those Odyssey figures which Lady Frog 
brought over, has almost finished a set for the Hit d also. I should 
be glad to embellish my Homer with them, but neither my book- 
seller nor I shall probably choose to risque so expensive an orna- 
ment on a work, whose reception with the public is at present 
doubtful. 

Adieu, my dearest Catharina. Give my best love to your hus- 
band. Come home as soon as you can, and accept our united very 
best wishes. W. C. 



LETTER LXXLX. 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

The Lodge, August 22, 1793* 
My dear Friend, 

I rejoice that you have had so pleasant 
an excursion, and have beheld so many beautiful scenes. Except 
the delightful upway, I have seen them all. I have lived much at 
Southampton, have slept and caught a sore-throat at Lyndhurst, 
and have swam in the bay of Weymouth. It will give us great 
pleasure to see you here, should your business give jou an oppor- 
tunity to finish your excursions of this season with one to Weston. 
As for my going on, it is much as usual. I rise at six ; an in- 
dustrious and wholesome practice from which I have never 
swerved since March. I breakfast generally about eleven — have 
given all the intermediate time to my old delightful bard. Vil- 
loisson no longer keeps me company. I therefore now jog along 
with Clarke and Barnes at my elbow, and from the excellent an- 
notations of the former select such as I think likely to be useful, or 
that recommend themselves by the amusement they may afford; of 
which sorts there are not a few. Barnes also affords me some of 
both kinds, but not so many, his notes being chiefly paraphrastical 
or grammatical. My only fear is lest, between them both, I should 
make my work too voluminous. W. C. 

LETTER LXXX. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Weston, August 27, 1793. 
I thank you, my dear brother, for con- 
sulting the Gibbonian oracle on the question concerning Homer's 
muse, and his blindness. I proposed it likewise to my little neigh- 
bour Buchanan, who gave me precisely the same answer. I felt 

VOL. II. M 



82 LIFE OP COWPER. 

an insatiable thirst to learn something new concerning him, and, 
despairing of information fmm others, was willing to hope that I 
had stumbled on matter unnoticed by the commentators, and might, 
perhaps, acquire a little intelligence from himself» But the great 
and the little oracle together have extinguished that hope, and I 
despair now of making any curious discoveries abcut him. 

Since Flaxman (which I did not know till your letter told me 
so) h-ds been at work for the Iliad, as well as the Odyssey, it 
seems a greit pity that the engravings should not be bound up 
with some Homer or other ; and, as I said before, I should have 
been too proud to have bound them up in mine. But there is an 
objection, at least such it seems to me, that threatens to disqualify" 
them for such a use ; namely, the shape and size of them, which, 
are such that no book of the usual form could possibly receive 
them, save in a folded state, which, I apprehend, would be to 
murder them. 

The monument of Lord Mansfield, for which you say he is en- 
gaged, will, I dare say, prove a noble effort of genius. Statuaries, 
as I have heard an eminent one say, do not much trouble them- 
selves about a likeness: else I would give much to be able to com- 
municate to Flaxman the perfect idea that I have of the subject, 
such as he was forty years ago. He was at that time wonderfully 
handsome, and would expound the most mysterious intricacies of 
the law, or recapitulate both matter and evidence of a cause, as 
long as from hence to Eartham, with an intelligent smile on his 
features, that bespoke plainly the perfect ease with which he did 
it. The most abstruse studies, I believe, never cost him any la- 
bour. 

You say nothing lately of your intended journey our way : yet 
the year is waning, and the shorter days give you a hint to lose no 
time unnecessarily. — Lately we had the whole family at the Hall, 
and now we have nobody. The Throckmortons are gone into 
Berkshire, and the Courteneys into Yorkshire. They are so plea- 
sant a family, that I heartily wish you to see them ; and at the 
same time wish to see you before they return, which will not be 
sooner than October. How shall I reconcile these wishes, seem- 
ingly opposite? Why, by wishing that you may come soon and stay 
long. I know no other way of doing it. 

My poor Mary is much as usual. — I have set up Homer's head, 
and inscribed the pedestal; my own Greek at the top, with your 
translation vmder it, and 

It makes altogether a very smart and learned appearance. 



LIFE OF COWPER. S3 



LETTER LXXXL 
To Lady HESKETH. 

August 29, llr93. 
Your question, at what time your coming 
to us will be most agreeable, is a knotty one, and such as, had I 
the wisdom of Solomon, I should be puzzled to answer. I will, 
therefore, leave it still a question, and refer the time of your jour- 
ney Weston-ward entirely to your own election ; adding this one 
limitation, ho^vever, that I do not wish to see you exactly at pre- 
sent, on account of the unfinished state of my study, the wainscot 
of which still smells of paint, and which is not yet papered. But 
to return : as I have insinuated, thy pleasant company is the thing 
which I always wish, and as much at one time as at another. I 
believe, if I examiire myself minutely, since I despair of ever hav- 
ing it in the height of summer, which, for your sake, I should desire 
most, the depth of the winter is the season wliich would be most 
eligible to me. For then it is that, in general, I have most need of 
a cordial, and particularly in the month of January. I am sorry, 
however, that I have departed so far from my first purpose, and 
am answering a question which I declared myself unable to an- 
swer. Choose thy own time, secure of this, that whatever time 
that be, it will always to us be a welcome one. 
T tliauk you for your pleasant extract of Miss Fanshaw's letter. 

Her pen drops eloquence as sweet 
As any muse's tongue can speak ; 
Nor need a scribe, like her, regret 
Her want of Latin or of Greek. 

And now, my dear, adieu '. I have done more than I expected, 
and begin to feel myself exhausted with so much scribbling at the 
end of four hours close application to study. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXXn. 
To the Reverend Mr. JOHNSON. 

West on, Sept. 6, 1793. 
My dearest Johnny, 

To do a kind thing, and in a kind man- 
ner, is a double kindness, and no man is more addicted to both 
tlian you, or more skilful in contriving them. Your plan to sur- 
orAsc me agreeably succeeded to admiration. It was only the day 



U LIFE OF COWPER. 

before 3-esterday that, while we walked after dinner in the orch- 
ard, Mrs. Unwin between Sam and me, hearing the Hall-clock, I 
observed a great difference between that and ours, and began im. 
mediately to lament, as I had often done, that there was not a sun- 
dial in all Weston to ascertain the true time for us. My complaint 
was long, and lasted till, having turned into the gi-ass walk, we 
reached the new building at the end of it, where we sat awhile 
and reposed ourselves. In a few minutes we returned by the way 
we came, when what think you was my astonishment to see what 
I had not seen before, though I had passed close by it, a smart 
sun-dial mounted on a smart stone pedestal ! I assure you it teemed 
the effect of conjuration. I stopped short, and exclaimed, " Why, 
here is a sun-dial, and upon our own ground! How is this? Tell 
me, Sam, how came it here? Do you know any thing about it?" 
At first I really thnught (that is to say, as soon as I could think at 
all) that this fac-tctum of mine, Sam Roberts, having often heard 
me deplore the want of one, h;.d given orders for the supply of that 
want himself, without my knowledge, and was half pleased and 
half offended. But he soon exculpated himself by imputing the 
fact to you. It was brought up to Weston, it seems, about noon: 
but Andrews stopped the cart at the blacksmith's, whence he sent 
to inquire if I was gone to my walk. As it happened, I walked 
not till two o'clock. So there it stood waiting till I should go forth, 
and was introduced before my return. Fortunately, too, I went out 
at the church end of the village, and consequently saw nothing of 
it. How I could possibly pass it without seeing it, when it stood in 
the walk, IknoAvnot; but it is certain that I did: and where I 
shall fix it now I know as little. It cannot stand between the two 
gates, the place of your choice, as I understand fi'om Samuel, be- 
cause the hay-cart must pass that way in the season. But we are 
now busy in winding the walk all round the orchard, and in so doing 
shall doubtless stumble at last upon some open spot that will suit it. 

There it shall stand while I live, a constant monument of your 
kindness. 

I have this moment finished the twelfth book of the Odyssey, 
and I read the Iliad to Mrs. Unwin every evening. 

The effect of this reading is, that I still spy blemishses, some- 
thing, at least, that I can mend ; so that, after all, the transcript 
of alterations which you and George have made will not be a per- 
fect one. It woidd be foolish to forego an opportunity of improve- 
ment for such a reason ; neither will I. It is ten o'clock, and I 
must breakfast. Adieu, therefore, my dear Johnny ! Remembei 
your appointment to see us in October. Ever yours, 

V\\ C. 



LIFE OF COWTER. S5 

LETTER LXXXnL 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Sept. 8, 1793. 
^071 sum quod simulo, my deai'est brother 1 
1 seem cheerful upon paper sometimes, when I am absolutely 
the most dejected of all creatures. Desirous, however, to gain 
something myself by my own letters, unprofitable as they may and 
must be to my friends, I keep melancholy out of them as much as 
I can, that I may, if possible, by assuming a less gloomy air, 
deceive myself, and by feigning with a continuance, improve the 
fiction into reality. 

So you have seen Flaxman's figures, which I intended vou should 
not have seen till I had spread them before you ! How did you 
dare to look at them ? You should ha\'e covered your eyes with 
both hands. I am charmed witli Flaxmans Penelope, and though 
you don't deserve that I should, will send you a few lines, such as 
they are, with which she inspired me the other day while I was 
taking my noon-day walk. 

The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, 
Whom all this elegance migh^ well seduce ; 
Nor can our censure on the husband fall, 
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all. 

I know not that you will meet any body here when we see 
you in October, unless, perhaps, my Johnny should happen to be 
witli us. If Tom is charmed with the thoughts of coming to 
Weston, we are equally so with the thouglits of seeing him here. 
At his years I should hardly hope to make his visit agreeable to 
him, did not I know that he is of a temper and disposition that 
must make him happy every where. Give our love to him. If 
Romney can come with you, we have both room to receive hiro, 
and hearts to make liim most welcome. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXXIV. 
To Mrs. COURTENEY. 

Sc/it. 16, 1793* 

A thousand tlianks, my dearest Cath?.- 

rina, for your pleasant letter ; one of the p'.easantest that I have 

received since your departure. You are very good to apologize for 

your delay, bvi I bad not flattered my£.clf witli the hojes of a 



86 LIFE OF COWPER; 

speedier answer. Knowing full well your talents for entertaining 
your friends who are present, I was sure you would with difficulty 
find half an hour that you could devote to an absent one. 

I am glad that you think of your return. Poor Weston is a de- 
solation without you. In the mean time I amuse myself as well 
as I can, thrumming old Homer's lyre, and turning the premises 
upside down. Upside down indeed, for so it is literally that I have 
been dealing with the orchard almost ever since you went, dig- 
ging and delving it around to make a new walk, which now begins 
to assume the sliape of one, and to look as if, some time or other, 
it may serve in that capacity. Taking my usual exercise there 
the other day with Mrs. Unwin, a wide disagreement between 
your clock and ours occasioned me to complain much, as I have 
often done^ of the want of a dial. Guess my surprise when, at 
the close of my comtilaint, I saw one ; saw one close at my side, 
a smart one. glitl-^ving in the sun, and mounted on a pedestal of 
stone. I was istonished. " This," I exclaimed, " is absolute con- 
juration." — It was a most mysterious affair, but the mystery was 
at last explained. 

This scribble, I presume, will find you just arrived atBucklands. 
I would with all my heart, that, since dials can be thus suddenly 
conjured from one place to another, I could be so too, and could 
start up before your eyes in the middle of some walk or lawn, 
where you and Lady Frog are wandering. 

While Pitcairne whistles for his family-estate in Fifeshire, he 
will do well if he will sound a few ncces for me. I am originally 
of the same shii'e, and a family of my name is still there, to whom, 
perhaps, he may whistle on my behalf, not altogether in vain. So 
shall his fife excel all my poetical elTorts, which have not yet, 
and I dare say never will, effectually charm one acre of ground 
into my possession. 

Remember me to Sir John, Lady Frog, and your husband ; tell 
them I love them all. She told me once she was jealous ; now, in- 
deed, she seems to have some reason, since to her I have not writ- 
ten, and have written twice to you. But bid her be of good cou- 
rage ; in due time I will give her proof of my constancy. 

w. c. 



LETTEPv LXXXV. 

To the Reverend Mr. JOHNSON. 
My dearest Johnny, Sefit. 29, 1793^ 

You have done well to leave off visiting 
and being visited. Visits arc insatiable devourers of time, and 



LIFE OF COWPER. 87 

fit only for tliose who, if they did not that, would do nothing. The 
worst consequence of such departures from common practice is 
to be termed a singular sort of a fellow, or an odd-fish; a sort of 
reproach that a man might be wise enough to contemn, who had 
not half your understanding. 

I look forAvard with pleasure to October the eleventh, the day 
which I expect wih be albo 7iotandus lup.illo^ on account of your 
arrival here. 

Here you wjll meet Mr. Rose, who comes on the eighth, and 
brings with him Mr. Lawrence the painter — you may guess for 
what purpose. Lawrence returns when he has made his copy of 
me, but Mr. Rose will remain perhaps as long as you will. Hayley, 
on the contrary, will come, I suppose, just in time not to see you. 
Him we expect on the twentieth. I trust however that thou wilt 
so order thy pastoral matters, as to make thy stay here as long 
as possible. 

Lady Hesketh, in her last letter, inquires very kindly after 
you ; asked me for your address, and purposes soon to write to you. 
\A''e hope to see her in November : so that after a summer without 
company, Ave are likely to have an autumn and winter sociable 
enough. 

LETTER LXXXVL 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

October 5, ir93. 
My good intentions towards j'ou, my 
dearest brother, are continually frustrated; and, which is most pro- 
voking, not by such engagements and avocations as have a right 
to my attention, such as those to my Maiy, and to the old bard 
of Greece, but mere impertinences, such as calls of civility from 
persons not very interesting to me, and letters from a distance 
still less interesting, because the writers of them are strangers. 
A man sent me a long copy of verses, which 1 could do no less 
than acknowledge. They wex-e silly enough, and cost me cighteen- 
pence, which was seventeen pence halfpenn)' farthing more than 
they were worth. Another sent me, at the same time, a plan, re- 
questing my opinion of it, and that I would lend him my name as 
editor; a request with which I shall not comply ; but I am obliged 
to tell him so, and one letter is all that I have time to dispatch in a 
day, sometimes half a one, and sometimes I am not able to Avrite 
at all. Thus it is that my time perishes, and I can neither give-^ 
so much of it as I would to you, nor to any other valua!)le purpose. 
On Tuesday wc expect companj- — Mr. Rose and Lawrence the 



88 LIFE OF COWPER. 

painter. Yet once more is my patience to be exercised, and once 
more I am made to wish that my face had been moveable, to put 
on and take off at pleasure, so as to be portable in a band-box, and 
sent to the ai'tist. These, however, will be gone, as I believe I 
told you, before you arrive, at which time I know not that any 
body will be here, except my Johnny, whose presence will not at 
all interfere with our readings. You will not, I believe, hnd me a 
very slashing critic. I hardly, indeed, expect to find any thing in 
your life of Milton that I shall sentence to ampuiation. How 
should it be too long? A well written work, sensible and spirited, 
such as yours was when I saw it, is never so. But, however, we 
shall see. I promise to spare nothing that I think may be lopped 
off with advantage. 

I began this letter yesterday, but could not finish it till now. I 
have risen this morning like an infernal frog out of Acheron, co- 
vered with the ouze and mud of melancholy. For this reason I 
am not sorry to find myself at the bottom of my paper, for had I 
moi'e room, perhaps I might fill it all with ci'oaking, and make a 
heart-ache at Eartham, which I wish to be always cheerful. 
Adieu. My poor sympathising Mary is of course sad, but always 
mindful of you. 

w. c. 



LETTER LXXXVn. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

Oct. 18, 1793. 
My dearest Brother, 

I have not, at preseitt, much that is neces- 
sary to say here, because I shall have the happiness of seeing you 
so soon : my time, according to custom, is a mere scrap ; for which 
reason such must be my letter also. 

You will find here more than I have hitherto given you reason to 
expect, but none who will not be happy to see you. These, how- 
ever, stay with us but a short time, and wiU leave us in full posses- 
sion of Weston on Wednesday next. 

I look forward with joy to your coming, heartily wishing you a 
pleasant jonrney, in which my poor Mary joins me. Give our 
best love to Tom ; without whom, after having been taught to look 
for him, we should feel our pleasure in the interview much dimi- 
niiihed. 

Lrcti expectamus et pucnimqvie tuum. 

W. c. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 8^ 

My second ^isit to Weston (a scene that I cannot mention 
without feeling it endeared to me by the pleasures and by the 
pains of joyous and of niournfiil remembrance) took place very 
soon after the date of the last letter. I found Cowi)cr apparently 
well, and enlivened by the society of his young kinsman from 
Norfolk, and another of his favourite friends, Mr. Rose. The 
latter came recently from the seat of I^ord Si)encer, in Northamp- 
tonshire, and commis;iioned by that accomplished nobleman to 
invite Cowper and his guests to Althorpe, where my friend Gibbcn 
was to make a visit of considerable continuance. 

All the guests of Cowper now recommended it to him, very 
strongly, to venture on this little excursion to a house whose mas- 
ter he most cordially respected, and whose library alone might be 
regarded as a magnet of very powerful attraction to every elegant 
scholar. 

I wished to see Cowper and Gibbon personally acquainted, be- 
cause I perfectly knew the real benevolence of both ; for widely as 
they might differ on one important article, they were both able 
and worthy to appreciate and enjoy the extraordinary mental 
powers, and the rare colloquial excellence of each other. But the 
constitutional shyness of the poet conspired with the present in- 
firm state of Mrs. Unwin to prevent their meeting. He sent Mr. 
Rose and me to make his apology for declining so honourable an 
invitation. After a visit to Althoipe, where we had nothing to re- 
-gret but the absence of Cowper, I i*eturned to devote myself to 
him, when his younger guests were departed. Our social employ- 
ment, at this season, he has very ciieerfully described in the follow- 
ing letter to Mrs. Courteney. 

LETTER LXXXVin. 
To Mrs. COURTENEY. 

Weston^ JVov. 4, 1793. 
I seldom rejoice in a day of soaking 
vain like this ; but in this, my dearest Catharina, I do rejoice sin- 
vcrcly, because it affords mc an opportunity of writing to you, 
which, if fair weather had invited us into the orchard-walk at the 
usual hour, I should not have easily found. I am a most busy man, 
busy to a degree that sometimes half distracts me ; but if com- 
plete distraction be occasioned by having the thoughts too much 
and too long attached to a single point, I am in no danger of it, 
with such a perpetual whirl are mine whisked about from one sub- 
ject to another. When two poets meet there are fine doings, I can 
assui'e you. M\' Homer finds work for Hayley, and his Life of 

VOL, II. N 



90 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Milton work for nie, so that we are neither of us one moment idle. 
Poor Mrs. Unwin, in the mean time, sits quiet in her corner, occa- 
sionally laughing at us both, and not seldom interrupting us with 
some question or remark, for which she is constantly rewarded by 

me, with a "Hush — hold your jieace." Bless yourself, my dear 

Catharina, that you are not connected with a poet, especially that 
you have not two to deal with : ladies who have may be bidden, 
indeed, to hold tlicir peace, but veiy little peace have they. How 
should they, in fact, have any, continually enjoined as they are to 
be silent ? 



The same fever that has been so epidemic there, has been se- 
verely felt hei-e likewise : some have died, and a multitude have 
been in danger. Two under our own roof have been infected with 
it, and I am not sure that I have perfectly escaped myself, but I 
am now well again. 

I have persuaded Hayley to stay a week longer, and again my 
hopes revive that he may yet have an opportunity to know my 
friends before he returns into Sussex. — I write amidst a chaos of 
interni]7tions. Hayley on one hand spouts Greek, and on the other 
hand Mrs. Unwin continues talking, sometimes to us, and some-- 
times, because we are both too busy to attend to her, she holds a 
dialogue with herself. Quere — Ts not this a bull ? and ought I not, 
instead of dialogue, to have said soliloquy ? 

Adieu. With our united loVe to all your party, and with ardent 
wishes soon to see you all at Weston, I remain, my dearest Catha- 
i*ina, ever yours, 

W. C. 



Cowper entreated me, with great kindness, to remain the whole 
winter at Weston, and engage with him in a regular and complete 
revisal of his Homer. I wanted not inclination for an office so 
agreeable ; but it struck me that I might render much more essen- 
tial service to the poet, as I returned through London, by quicken- 
ing in the minds of his more powerful friends a seasonable atten- 
tion to his interest and welfare. My fears for him, in every point 
of view, were alarmed by his present very singular condition. He 
possessed completely, at this period, all the admirable faculties of 
his mind, and all the native tenderness of his heart ; but there was 
something indescribable in his appearance, Avhich led me to appre- 
hend that without some signal event in his favour to re-animate his 
spirits, they would gradually sink into hopeless dejection. The 



LIFE OF COWPER. 91 

Btate of his aged, infirm companion afforded additional gronnd for 
increasing solicitude. Her cheerful and beneficent spirit could 
hardly resist her own accumulated maladies so far as to preserve 
ability sufficient to watcli over the tender health of him whom she 
had Avatched and guarded so long. Imbecility of body and mind 
must gradually render this tender and heroic woman unfit for the 
charge Avhich she had so laudably sustained. The signs of such 
imbecility were beginning to be painfully visible : nor can nature 
present a spectacle mere ti'uiy pitiable than imbecility in such a 
shape, eagerly grasping for dominion which it knows not either 
how to retain or how to relinquish. 

I left Weston in November, painfully anxious for the alarming 
state of my two friends, and I was so unfortunate as to add to their 
complicated troubles some degree of inquietude for my health. A 
slight attack of an epidemical fever had rather hastened than re- 
tarded my departure ; but m.y indisposition proved more serious 
than I had supposed it to be ; and instead of being able to execute 
some literary commissions forCowpcr in London, with the alacrity 
which affection suggests, I was oblig'ed to inform him that I was 
confined by illness. He wrote to me immediately, with the tender- 
i^ss pecidiar to himself, and my reviving health soon enabled me 
to enliven his apprehensive mind, not only with an account of my 
recovery, but with intelligence relating to his own literary engage- 
ments tliat had a tendency to relieve his spirits from a considerable 
part of their present embarrassment and dejection. His next letter 
to one of his confidential friends contains a very cheei'ful and just 
desci'iption of his fiivcurite i-esidence. 



LETTER LXXXIX. 

To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. 

JVovember 5, 1793. 
My dear Friend, 

In a letter from Lady Hesketh, whicli I 
received not long since, she informed me how very pleasantly she 
had spent some time at Wargrove. VVe now begin to expect her 
here, where our charms of situation are, perhaps, not equal to 
yours, yet by no means contemptible. She told me slie had spoken 
to you in vciy handsome terms of the country round about us, but 
not so of our houie, and the view befoi-e it. The house itself, 
however, is not unworthy some commendation ; small as it is, it 
is neat, and neater than she is aware of; for my study and the 
loom over it have been repaii-ed and beautified this summer, and 
iittlc more was wanting to make it an abode sufficiently connno- 



92 LIFE OF COV^TER. 

dious for a man of my moderate desires. As to the prospect from 
It, that she misrepresented strangely, as I hope soon to have an 
opportunity to convince her by ocular demonstration. She told 
j'ou, I know, of certain cottages opposite to us, or rather she de- 
scribed them as poor houses and liovels, that effectually blind our 
"windows. But none such exist. On the contrary, the opposite 
object, and the only one, is an orchard, so well planted, and with 
trees of such growth, that we seem to look into a wood, or rather 
to be surrounded by one. Thus, placed as we are in the midst of 
a village, we have none of the disagreeables that belong to such a 
position; and the village itself is one of the prettiest I know; 
terminated at one end by the church-tower, seen through trees, 
and at the other by a very handsome gateway, opening into a fine 
grove of elms, belonging to our neighbour Courteney. How happy 
should I be to show it instead of describing it to you J 

Adieu, my dear friend. W. C 



LETTER XC. 
To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. 

IVeston, A'bvejnber 24, 179o, 
IMy dear Sir, 

Though my congratulations liave been 
delayed, you ha^^e no friend, numerous as your friends are, who 
has more sincerely rejoiced in your success than L It was no 
small mortification to me to find that three of the six whom I had 
engaged, were not qualified to vote. You have prevailed, how- 
ever, and by a considerable majority; there is, therefore, no room 
left for regret. When your short note arrived, which gave me 
the agreeable news of your victory, our friend of Eartham was 
with me, and shared largely in the joy that I felt on the occasion. 
He left me but a few days since, having spent somewhat more than 
a fortnight here ; during which time we employed all our leisure 
hours in the revisal of his Life of Milton. It is now finished, and 
a very finished work it is; and one that will do great honour, I am 
persuaded, to the biographer, and the excellent man, of injured 
memory, Avho is the subject of it. As to my own concern with 
the works of this first of poets, which has long been a matter of 
Inu-tliensome contemplation, I have the happiness to find, at last, 
that I am at liberty to postpone my labours. While I expected 
that my commentary would be called for in the ensuing spring, I 
looked forward to the undertalung Avith dismay, not seeing a sha- 
dow of pi'obability that I should be ready to answer the demand : 
f(n' this ultimate revisal of mv Homer, together with the notes. 



LIFE OF CO\\TEI?. $5 

©ccupies completely at present (and will foi' some time longei") all 
the little leisure that I have for study — leisure which I gain at 
this season of the year, by rising long before day-light. 

You are now become a nearer neighbour, and as your professor- 
ship, I hope, will not engross you wholly, will find an opportunitj- 
to give me your company at \^''eston. Let me hear from you soon ; 
tell me how you like vour new office, and whether you perform 
the duties of it with pleasure to yourself. VVidi much pleasure 
to others you Avill, I doubt not, and with equal ad^ antage. 

\V. C. 



LETTER XCL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

lVest072, A'bv. 29, 1793. 
M\" DEAR Friend, 

I have risen, while the owls are still hoot- 
ing, to pursue my accustomed labours in the mine of Homer; but 
before I enter upon them, shall give the first moment of day-light 
to the purpose of thanking you for your last letter, containing many 
pleasant articles of intelligence, with nothing to abate the plea- 
santness of them, except the single circumstance that we are not 
likely to see you here so soon as I expected. MyhopeAvas that the 
first frost would bring you, and the amiable painter with you : if, 
however, you are prevented by the business of your I'espective 
professions, you are well prevented, and I will endeavour to be pa- 
tient. When the latter was here, he mentioned, one day, the sub- 
ject of Diomede's horses driven under the axle of his chariot, by 
the thimder-bolt which fell at their feet, as a subject he had settled 
for his pencil. It is certainly a noble one, and therefore Avoi-thy of 
his study and attention. It occurred to me at the moment, but I 
know not what it was that made me forget it again the next mo- 
ment, that the horses of Achilles flying over the foss, with Patro- 
clus andAutomedon in the chariot, would be a good companion for 
it. Should you happen to recollect this when you next see him, 
you may submit it, if you please, to his consideration. I stumbled 
\-cstcrday on another subject, which reminded me of said excellent 
artist, as likely to afford a fine opportunity to the expression that 
he could give to it. It is found in tlie shooting-match, in the twen- 
ty-third book of the Iliad, between Mariones and Teucer. The 
former cuts the string v\'ith which the dove is tied to the mast-head, 
and sets her at liberty ; the latter, standing at his side, in all the 
eagerness of emulation, points an arrow at the mark v»ith his 
jight liand, while, with )iis left, he snatches the bow from hii^ com- 



H LIFE OF CO\VPER. 

petitor. He is a fine poetical figure : but Mr. Lawrence himself 
inust judge whether or not he promises as well for the canvass. 

He does great honour to my physiognomy by his intention to get 
it engraved ; and though I think I foresee that this firivate }iubli~ 
cation will grow, in time, into a publication of absolute publicity, I 
find it impossible to be dissatisfied with any thing that seems eli- 
gible both to him and you. To say the tnith, when a man has 
once turned his mind inside out, for the inspection of all who 
choose to inspect it, to make a secret of his face seems but little 
better than a self-contradiction. At the same time, however, I 
shall be best pleased if it be kept, according to your intentions, as 
a rarity. 

I have lost Ilaj'ley, and begin to be uneasy at not hearing from 
him : tell me about him when you write. 

I should be happy to have a work of mine embellished by Law- 
rence, and made a companion for a work of Hayley's. It is an event 
tn which I look forward with the utmost complacence. I cannot 
tell you what a relief I feel it, not to be pressed for Milton. 

W. C. 



LETTER XCIL 
To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. 

My dear Friend, December 8, 1793. 

In my last I forgot to thank jou for the 
box of books, containing also the pamphlets. We have read, that 
IS to say, my cousin has, who reads to us in an evening, the history 
of Jonathan Wild, and found it highly entertaining. The satire 
on great men is witty, and, I believe, perfectly just. We have no 
censure to pass on it, unless that we think the character of Mrs. 
Hartfree not well sustained ; not quite delicate in the latter part 
of it ; and that the constant effect of her charms upon every man 
who sees her has a sameness in it that is tiresome, and betrays either 
much carelessness, or idleness, or lack of invention. It is possible, 
indeed, that the author might intend, by this circumstance, a sa- 
tirical glance at novelists, whose heroines arc generally all be- 
witching; but it is a fault that he had better have noticed in ano- 
ther manner, and not have exemplified in his own. 

The first volume of Man as he is, has lain unread in my study 
window this twelvemonth, and would have been returned unread 
to its owner, had not my cousin come in good time to save it from 
that disgrace. We are now reading it, and find it excellent ; 
abounding with wit and just sentiment, and knowledge both of 
books and men. Adieu. W. C, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 95 

LETTER XCin. 
To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esquire. 

December 8, 1793. 

I have waited, and waited impatiently, 

for a line from you, and am at last determined to send you 

one, to inquire what is become of you, and why you are silent so 

much longer than usual. 

I want to know many things which only you can tell me, but 
especially I want to know what has been the issue of your confer- 
ence with Nichol : has he seen your work ? I am impatient for the 
appearance of it, because impatient to have the spotless credit of 
the ^reat poet's character, as a man and a citizen, vindicated as 
it ought to be, and as it never will be again. 

It is a great relief to me that my Miltonic labours are sus- 
pended. I am now busy in transcribing the alterations of Homer, 
having finished the whole revisal. I must then write a new pre- 
face, which done I shall endeavour immediately to descant on The 
fourJs^es. Adieu, my dear brother. 

W. C. 



The reader may now be anxious to learn some particulars of 
the projected poem, v/hich h;is been repeatedly mentioned under 
the title of " The four A'^es f a poem to which the mind of 
Cowper looked eagerly forward, as to a new and highly promising 
field for his excursive and benevolent fancy. The idea had becH 
suggested to him in the year 1791, by a very amiable clerica) 
neighbour, Mr. Buchanan, who, in the humble curacy of Raven- 
stone, (a little sequestered village within a distance of an easy 
walk from Weston) possesses, in a scene of rustic privacy, suck 
extensive scholarship, such gentleness of manners, and such a con- 
templative dignity of mind, as would certainly raise him to a more 
suitable, and, indeed, to a conspicuous situation, if the professional 
success of a divine were the immediate consequence of exemplary 
merit. This gentleman, who had occasionally enjoyed the 
gratification of visiting Cowper, suggested to him, with a becom- 
ing diffidence, the project of a new poem on the four distinct 
periods of life, infancy, youth, manhood, and old age. He im- 
parted his ideas to the poet by a letter, in which he obsen'cd, 
with equal modesty and truth, that Cowper was particularly quali- 
fied to relish and to do justice to the subject; a subject which he 
supposed not hitherto treated expressly, as its importance de- 
serves, by any poet, ancient or modern. 



^6 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Mr. Buchanan added to tliis letter a brief sketch of contents 
for the projected composition. This hasty sketch he enlarged by 
the kind encouragement of Cowper. How cheerfully the poet 
received the idea, and how liberally he applauded the worthy 
divine who suggested it, will appear from tlie following billet, 
■written immediately on the receipt of the more ample sketch. 



To the Reverend Mr. BUCHANAN. 

Weston, May 11, 1793. 
My dear Sir, 

You have sent me a beautiful poem, 
wanting nothing but metre. I would to heaven that you would 
give it that requisite yourself; for he Avho could make the sketch, 
cannot but be well qualified to finish. But if you will not, I will, 
provided ahvays, nevertheless, that God gives me ability ; for it 
Avill require no common share to do justice to your conceptions. I 
am much vours, 

W. C. 
Your little messenger vanished before I could catch him. 



Various impediments rendered it hardly possible for Cowper to 
devote himself as he wished to do to the immediate prosecution of 
a plan so promising; yet he cherished the idea for some years 
in his mind, and was particularly pleased (as the reader may recol- 
lect from a passage in one of his letters to me) Avith a prospect 
tliat this intended poem might form a portion of a very ample 
Original confederate work, which we hoped to produce in concert 
with the united powers of some admirable artists, who were justly 
dear to us both. 

All who delight to accompany the genius of Cowper in animated 
flights of moral contemplation, will deeply regret that he was pre- 
cluded, by a variety of trouble, from indulging his ardent imagina- 
tion in a v/ork that would have afforded him such ample scope for 
all the sweetness and all the sublimity of his spirit. His felicity 
of description, and his exquisite sensibility; his experience of life, 
and his sanctity of character, rendered him singularly fit and 
worthy to delineate the progress of nature in all the different 
stages of human existence. 

A poem of such extent and diversity, happily completed by sucli 
a poet, would be a national treasure of infinite value to ihe country 
that gave it birth, and I had fervently hoped that England might 
receive it from the hand of Cowper. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 9r 

With a regret proportioned to those hopes I now impart to my 
readers the minute and imperfect fragment of a project so mighty. 
Yet even tlie few verses which Cowper had thrown on paper, as 
the commencement of such a work, will be read with peculiar 
interest, if there is truth, as I feel there is, in the following re- 
mark of the elder Pliny. 

" Suprema opera artificum, imperfectasque Tabulus, in majori 
" admiratione esse quam perfecta ; Quippe in iis lineamenta reli- 
" qua ipsxque cogitationes artificum spectantur, atque in lenoci- 
" nio commendationis dolor est: — Manus, cum id agerent extinctw, 
" desiderantur," 



THE FOUR AGES. 

^ brief Fragment of an extensive pj'ojected Poem, 

" I could be well content, allow 'd the use 

" Of past experience, and the wisdom glean 'd 

" From worn-out follies, now acknowledg'd such, 

" To re-commence life's trial, in the hope 

" Of fewer errors, on a second proof!" 

Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd 
Fresh odours from the shrubb'ry at my side, 
Taking my lonely winding walk I mus'd. 
And held accustom'd conference with my heart j 
When, from within it, thus a voice replied. 

" Could'st thou in truth ? and art thou taught at length 
*' This wisdom, and but this from all the past ? 
" Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, 
" Time wasted, violated laws, abuse 
" Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far 
" Than opportunity vouchsaf 'd to err 
" W'itli less excuse, and haply, worse effect?" 

I heard, and acquiesced : Then to and fro 
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck. 
My grav'lly bounds, from self to human kind 
I pass'd, and next consider'd — ^WHiat is Man ? 

Knows he his origin ? — Can he ascend 
By reminiscence to his eai'liest date ? 
VOL. n. 



98 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Slept he in Adam ? and in those from him 

Through num'rous generations, till he found, 

At length, his destin'd moment to be born ? 

Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb ? 

Deep myst'ries both, which schoolmen must have toil'd 

To unriddle, and have left them myst'ries still. 

It is an evil incident to man, 
And of the worst, that unexplor'd he leaves 
Truths useful, and attainable with ease, 
To search forbidden deeps, where myst'ry lies. 
Not to be solv'd, and useless if it might. 
Myst'ries are food for Angels ; they digest 
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, 
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean 
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die. 

It may, in some degree, alleviate the regret which lovers of 
poetry must feel that this interesting project was never accom- 
• plished by Cowper, to be informed that a modern poem on the four 
Ages of Man was written by M. Werthmuller, a citizen of Zurich, 
and translated into Latin verse by Dr. Olstrochi, librarian to the 
Ambrosian library at Milan. This performance gave rise to ano- 
ther German poem on the four Ages of Women, by M. Zacharie, 
professor of poetry at Brunswick, an elegant little work, that 
breathes a spirit of tenderness and piety. 

The increasing infii-mities of Cowper's aged companion, Mrs. 
Unwin, his filial solicitude to alleviate her sufferings, and the 
gathering clouds of deeper despondency that began to settle on 
his mind in the first month of the year 1794, not only rendered it 
impossible for him to advance in any great original performance, 
but, to use his own expressive words in the close of his correspond- 
ence with his highly valued friend Mr. Rose, made all composi- 
tion, either of poetry or prose, impracticable. Writing to that 
friend in January, 1794, he says, " I have just ability enough to 
transcribe, which is all that I have to do at present : God knows 
that I write, at this moment, under the pressure of sadness not to 
be described." 

It was a spectacle that might awaken- compassion in the sternest 
of human characters, to see the health, the comfort, and the little 
fortune of a man so distinguished by intellectual endowments and 
by moral excellence, perishing most deplorably. A sight so affect- 
ing made many friends of Cowper solicitous and importunate that 
his declining life should be honourably protected by public munifi- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 99 

cence. Men of all parties agreed that a pension might be granted 
to an author of his ackjnowledged merit with graceful propriety, 
and "we might apply to him, on this topic, the very expressive 
words which the poet Claudian addresses, on a different occasion, 
to his favourite hero : 

Suffragia Vulgi 
Jam tibi detulerant, quidquid mox debuit aula. 

It was devoutly to be wished, that the declining spirits of Cow- 
per should be speedily animated and sustained by assistance of this 
nature, because the growing influence of melancholy not only filled 
him with distressing ideas of his own fortune, but threatened to 
rob him of the power to make any kind of exertion in his own be- 
half. His situation and his nierits were perfectly understood, hu- 
manely felt, and honouralily acknowledged by persons who, while 
they declared that he ought to receive an immediate puMic sup- 
port, seemed to possess both the inclination and the poAver to en- 
sure it. But such is the difficulty of doing real good, experienced 
even by the great and the powerful, or so apt are statesmen to for- 
get the pressing exigence of meritorious individuals, in the distrac- 
tions of official perplexity, that month after month elapsed, in 
which the intimate friends of Cowper confidently, yet vainly ex- 
pected to see him happily rescued from some of the darkest evils 
impending over him, by an honourable pi'ovision for life. 

Imagination can hardly devise any human condition more truly 
aifecting than the state of the poet at this period. His generous 
and faithful guardian, Mrs. Unwin, who had preserved him 
through seasons of the severest calamity, was now, with her facul- 
ties and foi-tune impaired, sinking fast into second childhood. The 
distress of heart that he felt in beholding the cruel change in a 
companion so justly dear to him, conspiring with his constitutional 
melancholy, was gradually undermining the exquisite faculties of 
iiis mind. But depi'est as he was by these complicated afflictions, 
Providence was far from deserting this excellent man. His female 
relation, whose regard he had cultivated as his favourite corres- 
pondent, now devoted herself very nobly to the superintendence of 
a house, whose two interesting inhabitants were rendered, by age 
•and trouble, almost incapable of attending to the ordinary offices 
of life. 

Those only who have lived with the superannuated and the me- 
lancholy, can properly appreciate the value of such magnanimous 
•friendship, or perfectly apprehcr.d what personal sufferings it must 
(f u:it the mortal who exerts it, if that mortal has received froiu 



100 LIFE OF COWPER. 

nature a frame of compaissionate sensibility. The lady to whom 1 
allude has felt but two severely, in her own health, the heavy taJt 
that mortality is forced to pay for a resolute perseverance in such, 
painful dut^'. 

The two last of Cowper's letters to me, that breathe a spirit of 
mental activity and cheerful friendship, were written in the close 
of tlie year 1793 and in the beginning of the next. They arose 
from an incident that it may be proper to relate before I insert 
the letters. 

On my return from Weston I had given an account of the poet 
to his old friend Lord Thurlcw. That learned and powerful cri- 
tic, in speaking of Cowper's Homer, happened to declare himself 
not satisfied with his version of Hector's admirable prayer in ca- 
ressing his child. We both ventured on new translations of the 
prayer, which I sent immediately to Cowper, and the following 
letters will prove with what just and manly freedom of spirit he 
was at this time able to criticise the composition of his friends and 
'his own. 



LETTER XCrV'. 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

December IT, 1793. 
Oh Jove ! and all ye gods ! grant this my son 
To prove, like me, pre-eminent in Troy ! 
In valour such, and firmness of command ! 
Be he extoll'd, when he returns from fight, 
As far his Sire's superior ! may he slay 
His enemy, bring home his gory spoils, 
And may his mother's heart o'erflow with joy ! 

I rose this morning at six o'clock, on pur- 
pose to translate this prayer again, and to write to my dear brother. 
Here you ha^^ it, such as it is, not perfectly according to my 
own liking, but as well as I could make it, and I think better than 
either your's or Lord Thurlow's. You, with your six lines, have 
made yourself stiff and ungraceful, and he, Avithhis seven, has pro- 
duced as good prose as heart can wish, but no poetry at all. A 
scrupulous attention to the latter has spoiled you both ; you have 
neither the spirit nor the manner of Homer. A portion of both 
may be found, I believe, in my version, but not so much as I could 
wish : it is better, however, than the printed one. His Lordship's 
two first lines I cannot very well understand: he seems to me to 
give a sense to the original that does net belong to it. Hector, I 



i 



LIFE OF COWPER. lOJ 

^apprehend, does not say, " Grant that he may prove himself my 
son, and be eminent," &c. but, " Gi-ant that this my son may prove 
eminent;" which is a material difference. In the latter sense I 
find the simplicity of an ancient ; in the former, that is to say, in 
the notion of a man's proving himself his fether's son by similar 
merit, the finesse and dexterity of a modern. His Lordship, too, 
makes the man who gives the young hero his commendation tb.e 
person who returns from battle; whereas Homer makes the young 
hero himself that person, at least if Clarke is a just interpreter, 
which I suppose is hardly to be disputed. 

If my old friend would look into my preface, he would find a 
principle laid down there, which, perhaps, it would not be easy to 
invalidate, and which, properly attended to, would equally secure a 
translation from stiffness and from wildness. The principle I 
mean is this : " Close, but not so close as to be servile ; free, but 
not so free as to be licentious." A superstitious fidelity loses the 
spirit, and a loose deviation the sense of the translated author — a 
happy moderation, in either case, is the only possible way of pre- 
serving both. 

Thus have I disciplined you both, and now, if you please, you 
may both discipline me. I shall not enter my version in my book 
till it has undergone your strictures at least, and should you write 
to the noble critic again, you are welcome to submit it to his. We 
are three aukward fellows indeed, if we cannot amongst us make 
ft tolerable good translation of six lines of Homer. Adieu. 

\\ . C. 



LETTER XCV. 
To WILLIAM HAY LEY, Esquire. 

Weston, January 5, 1794, 
My dear Hayley, 

I have waited, but waited in vain, for a 
propitious moment when I might give my old friend's objecticns the 
consideration they deserve. I shall, at last, be forced to send a 
vague answer, unworthy to be sent to a person accustomed, like hin'j, 
to close reasoning and abstruse discussion, for I ri>:e after ill reia, 
and witli a frame of mind perfectly unsuited to tlie occasion. I sit, 
too, at the window, for light sake, where I am so cold that my ])cn 
slips out of my fingers. First I will give you a translation, de 
novo, of this untranslatable prayer. It is shaped, as nearly as I 
could contrive, to his Lordship's ideas, but I have little hope that 
it will satisfy him. 



1€I2 LIFE OF CO\'\'PER. 

Grant Jove, and all ye gods, that this, my soh, 
Be, as myself have been, illustrious here ! 
A valiant man ! and let him reign in Troy I 
May all who witness his return from fight 
Hereafter, say — He far excels his sire ; 
And let him bring back gory trophies, stript 
From foes slain by him, to his mother's joy. 

Imlac, in Rasselas, says, I forget to whom, " You have convinced 
me that it- is impossible to be a poet." In like manner I might 
say to his Lordsliip, you have convinced me that it is impossible to 
be a translator. To be a translator, on his terms at least, is, I 
am sure, impossible. On his terms I would defy Homer himself, 
were he alive, to translate the Paradise Lost into Greek. Yet 
iMilton had Homer much in his eye, when he composed that poem: 
whereas Homer never thought of me or my translation. There 
are minutiae in eveiy language, which, transfused into another, will 
spoil the version. Such extreme fidelity is, in fact, unfaithful. Such 
close resemblance takes away all likeness. The original is elegant, 
easy, natural ; the copy is clumsy, constrained, unnatural. To 
Avhat is this owing? To the adoption of terms not congenial to your 
purpose ; and of a context, such as no man writing an original 
work would make use of. Homer is evei-y thing that a poet should 
be. A translation of Homer so made, will be every thing that a 
translation of Homer should not be ; because it will be written in 
no language under heaven. It will be English, and it will be 
Greek, and therefore it will be neither. He is the man, whoever 
he be, (I do not pretend to be that man myself) he is the man best 
qualified as a translator of Homer, who has drenched, and steeped, 
and soaked himself in the effusions of his genius, till he has im- 
bibed their colour to the bone, and who, when he is thus dyed 
through and through, distinguishing between what is essentially 
Greek, atid what may be habited in English, rejects the former, 
and is faithful to the latter, as far as the purposes of fine poetry 
will permit, and no farther. This, I think, may be easily pi'oved. 
Homer is every where remarkable either for ease, dignity, or 
energy of expression; for grandeur of conception, and a majestic 
flow of numbers. If we copy him so closely as to make every one 
of these excellent properties of his absolutely unattainable, which 
will certainly be the effect of too close a copy, instead of translat- 
ing we murder him. Therefore, after all that his Lordship has 
said, I still hold freedom to be an indispensible. Freedom, I mean, 
with respect to the expression ; fi'cedom so limited, as never to 
leave behind the matter ; but at the same time indulged with a. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 103 

sufficient scope to secure the spirit, aud as much as possible of the 
manner. I say as much as possible, because an English manner 
must differ from a Greek one, in order to be graceful ; and for this 
there is no remedy. Can an ungracefiil, aukward translation of 
Homer be a good one ? No : but a graceful, easy, natural, faith- 
ful version of him — will not that be a good one? Yes: allow me 
but this, and I insist upon it that such a one may be produced 
on my principles, and can be produced on no other. 

I have not had time to criticise his Lordship's other version. 
You know how little time I have for any thing, and can tell 
him so. 

Adieu, my dear brother. I have now tired both ycu and my- 
self; and, with the love of the whole trio, remain yours ever, 

^^^ c. 

Reading his Lordship's sentiments over again, I am inclined to 
think, that m all I have said I have only given him back the same 
in other terms. He disallows both the absolute free,, and the ab- 
solute close : so do I ; and, if I understand myself, have said so in 
my preface. He wishes or recommends a medium, though he will 
not call it so: so do I ; only we express it differently. "\Miat is it, 
then, that we dispute about ? My head is not good enough to-day to 
discover. 



These letters were followed by such a silence on the part of my 
invaluable correspondent, as filled me with the severest apprehen- 
sions : because I well knew that, while he retained any glimmei'- 
ings of mental health, his affectionate spirit was eager to unbur- 
then itself to a friend, of whose sympathy, in all his sufferings, he 
was perfectly assured. The accounts of him with which I was fa- 
voured by his amiable relation (who, shocked as she was by the 
helpless state and deplorable infirmities of Mrs. Unwin, now 
resided with these piteous invalids,) increased my anxiety for my 
dejected and silent fi-iend. 

Little as the probability appeared that my presence could render 
him any essential service, I was induced to visit Weston once 
more, by the following friendly exhoi-tation, in a letter from Cow- 
per's compassionate neighbour, Mr. Greatheed — the clergyman 
■whom Cowper himself had taught me to esteem on our first ac- 
quaintance. 



10% LIFE OF COWPER. 

From the Reverend Mr. GREATHEED, 
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. 

JVetvfiort-Pa^el, Jjiril 8, llr94. 
Dear Sir, 

Lady Hesketh's correspondence acquainted 
you with the melancholy relapse of our dear friend at Weston ; but 
I am uncertain whether you know that, in the last fortnight, he 
has refused food of every kind, except now and then a very small 
piece of toasted bread, dipped generally in water, sometimes mixed 
with a little wine. This, her Ladyship informs me, was the case 
till last Saturday, since when he has eat a little at each family 
meal. He persists in refusing such medicines as are indispensible 
to his state of body. In such circumstances, his long continuance 
in life cannot be expected. How devoutly to be wished is the alle- 
viation of his danger and distress ! You, dear Sir, who know so well 
the worth of our beloved and admired friend, sympathize with his. 
affliction, and deprecate his loss, doubtless, in no ordinary degree. 
You have already most effectually expressed and proved the 
warmth of your friendship. I cannot think that any thing but your 
society would have been sufficient, during the infirmity under which 
his mind has long been oppressed, to have supported him against 
tlie shock of Mrs. Unwin's paralytic attack. I am certain that no- 
ticing else could have prevailed upon him to undertake the jour- 
ney to Eartham. You have succeeded where his other friends 
knew they could not, and where they apprehended no one could. 
How natural, therefore, nay, how reasonable is it for them to look 
to you, as most likely to be instrumental, under the blessing of 
God, for relief in the present distressing and alarming crisis? It 
is, indeed, scarcely attemptable to ask any person to take such a 
journey, and invoh'e himself in so melancholy a scene, with an 
uncertainty of the desired success — increased aa the apparent diffi- 
culty is by dear Mr. Cov/per's aversion to all company, and by 
poor Mrs. Unwin's mental and bodily infirmities. On these 
accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it of you, rejoiced as she 
would be at your arrival. Am not I, dear Sir, a very presump- 
tuous person, who, in the face of all opposition, dare do this I 
I am emboldened by those two powerful supporters, conscience 
and experience. Was I at Eartham, I Avould certainly under- 
take the labour I presume to recommend, for the bare possibility 
of restoring Mr. Cowper to himself, to his friends, to the public, 
and to God. 



tiFE OF COWPER. 105 

The benevolent wishes of this sincere and fervent advocate for 
genius and virtue, sinking under calamity, were far from being 
accomplished by my arrival at Weston. My unhappy friend was 
too much overwhelmed by his oppressive malady, to show even 
the least glimmering of satisfaction at the appearance of a guest 
whom he used to receive with the ipost lively expressions of 
affectionate delight. 

It is the nature of this tremendous melancholy not only to 
enshroud and stifle the finest faculties of the mind, but it suspends, 
and apparently annihilates for a time, the strongest and best- 
rooted affections of the heart. I had frequent and painful occa- 
sion to observe, in this affecting visit to my suffering friend, 
that he seemed to shrink, at times, from every human creature, 
except from the gentle voice of my son. 

This exception I attributed partly to the peculiar charm which 
is generally found in the manners of tender ingenuous children, 
and partly to that uncommon sweetness of character which had 
inspired Cowper with a degree of parental partiality towards this 
highly promising youth. 

I had hoped, indeed, that his influence, at this season, might be 
superior to my own, over the dejected spirit of my friend ; but 
though it was so to a considerable degree, our united efforts to 
cheer and amuse him were utterly frustrated by his calamitous 
depression. 

I may yet hope that my distressing visit to this very dear 
sufferer was productive of some little good. My presence afforded 
an opportunity to his excellent relation, Lady Hesketh, who 
acted at this time as his immediate guardian, to quit her charge 
for a few days, that she might have a personal conference con- 
cerning him with the eminent Dr. \'\''illis. A friendly letter from 
Lord Thurlow to that celebrated physician had requested his 
attention to the highly interesting sufferer. Dr. Willis prescribed 
for Cowper, and saw him at Weston ; but not with that success 
and felicity which made his medical skill, on another most awful 
occasion, the source of national delight and exultation. 

Indeed, the extraordinary state of Cowper appeared to aboimd 
with circumstances veiy unfavourable to his mental relief. The 
daily sight of a being reduced to such deplorable imbecility as now 
overwhelmed Mrs. Unwin was, in itself, sufficient to plunge a 
tender spirit in extreme melancholy ; yet to separate two friends 
so long accustomed to minister, with the purest and most vigilant 
benevolence, to the infirmities of each other, was a measure so 
pregnant with complicated distraction, that it could not be advised 
or attempted. It remained only to palliate the sufferings of each, 

VOL. II. p 



106 LIFE OF COWPER. 

in their present most pitiable condition, and to trust in the metcy 
of that God who had supported them together through periods 
of very dark affliction, though not so doubly deplorable as the 
present. 

I had formerly regarded Weston as a scene that exhibited hu- 
man nature in a most delightful point of view : I had applauded 
there no common triumphs of genius and of friendship. The con- 
trast that I now contemplated has often led me to repeat (with 
such feelings as those only who have surveyed a contrast so de- 
plorable can perfectly conceive) the following pathetic exclama- 
tion in the Sampson Agonistes of Milton : 

" God of our Fathers, what is man I 

******* 

" Since such as Thou hast solemnly elected, 

" With gifts and graces eminently adorned ; 

******* 

*' Yet towards these thus dignified. Thou oft, 

" Amidst their height of noon, 

" Changest thy count'nance, and thy hand, with no regard 

" Of highest favours past 

" From Thee on them, or them to Thee of service. 

******** 

" So deal not with this once tliy glorious champion ! 

*' What do I beg ? How hast thou dealt already ! 

" Behold hira in this state calamitous, and turn 

" His labours, for thou canst, to peaceful end !" 

In the spirit of this prayer every being sympathized who had 
enjoyed a personal acquaintance with Cowper in his happier days^ 
or felt the beneficent influence of his unclouded mind. But, for 
reasons inscrutable to human apprehension, it was the will of 
Heaven that this admirable and meritorious invalid should pas.** 
through a length of sufferings, on which I am very far from being 
tlisposed to detain the attention of my reader: 

" Animus meminisse horret, luctuque refugit." 

I shall therefore only say, that although it has been my lot to be 
acquainted with affliction in a variety of shapes, I hardly ever felt 
the anguish of sj'mpathy with an afflicted friend in a severer de- 
gree than during the few weeks that I passed with Cowper at thia 
season of his sufferings. The pain that I endured from this sym- 
patliy was, I believe, very visible in my features^ and it obtained 



LTFE OF CO\^nPER. 3 or 

fcY me, from his excellent, accomplished neighbours, Mr. and 
Mrs. Courteney, the most delicate and endearing attention ; kind- 
ness so peculiarly consoling, that I can never cease to remember, 
and to speak of it with gratitude, while the faculty of memory re- 
mains to me. 

Indeed, as my own health had been much shattered by a series 
of troubles, it would probably have sunk utterly under the pres- 
sure of this distressing scene, had not some comforts of a very 
Jioothing nature been providentially blended with the calamities 
of my friend. 

It was on the twenty-third of April, 1794, in one of those me- 
lancholy mornings when his compassionate relation. Lady Hes- 
kcth, and myself, were watching together over this dejected suf- 
ferer, that a letter from Lord Spencer arrived at Weston, to anr 
nounce the intended grant of such a pension fi'om his Majesty to 
Cowper, as would ensure an honourable competence for the resi- 
due of his life. This intelligence produced in the friends of the 
poet very lively emotions of delight, yet blended with pain almost 
as powerful ; for it Avas painful, in no trifling degree, to reflect, 
that these desirable smiles of good fortune could not impart even 
a faint glimmering of joy to the dejected invalid. 

His friends, however, had the animating hope, that a day 
would ai-rive when they might see him receive, with a cheerful 
and joyful gratitude, this royal recompence for merit universally 
acknowledged. They knew that, when he recovered his suspended 
faculties, he must be particularly pleased to find himself chiefly 
indebted for his good fortune to the active benevolence of that 
nobleman who, though not personally acquainted with Cowjjer, 
stood, of all his noble friends, the highest in his esteem. 

Indeed, it is a justice due to the great to declare, that many of 
them concurred in promoting, on this occasion, the interest of the 
poet; and they spoke of him with a truth, and liberality of praise, 
that did honour both to him and to themselves. It is not often that 
Majesty has opportunities of granting a reward for literary merit, 
where the individual who receives it has so clear and unques- 
tionable a title, both to royal munificence and to popular affection. 
But the heart and spirit of Cowper were eminently loyal and pa- 
triotic. He has spoken occasionally of his sovereign in verse, with 
personal regard, but without a shadow of servility: and his poetry 
abounds with eloquent and just descriptions of that double duty 
which an Englishman owes to the crown and to tlie people. 

Perhaps no poet has more clearly and forcibly delineated the 
respective duties that ijclong both to subjects and to r^overcigns: 
I allude to an admirable passage on this topic in the fifth book of 



108 LIFE OF COWPER. 

the Task. It is time to return to the sufferer at Weston. He waS 
unhappily disabled from feeling the favour he received, but an an- 
nuity of three hundred a year was graciously secured to him, and 
rendered payable to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee of Cowper. 

A-fter devoting a few weeks to Weston, I was under a painful 
necessity of forcing myself away from my unhappy friend, who, 
though he appeared to take no pleasure in my society, expressed 
extreme reluctance to let me depart. I hardly ever endured an 
hour more dreadfully distressing than the hour in which I left 
him. Yet the anguish of it would have been greatly increased, 
had I been conscious that he was destined to years of this dark de- 
pression, and that I should see him no more. I still hoped, from 
the native vigour of his ft-ame, that, as he had formerly struggled 
through longer fits of this oppressive malady, his darkened mind 
would yet emerge from this calamitous eclipse, and shine forth 
again with new lus^tre. These hopes were considerably increased 
at a subsequent period ; but, alas ! they were delusive : for, al- 
though he recovered sufficient command of his faculties to write a 
few occasional poems, and to i-etouch his Homer, yet the prospect 
of his perfect recovery was never realized. I had beheld the poet 
of unrivalled genius, the sympathetic friend, and the delightful com- 
panion, for the last time ; and I must now relate the gloomy resi- 
due of his life, not from my own personal observation, but from 
the faithful account of his young kinsman of Norfolk, who devoted 
himself to the care of this beloved sufferer, and persevered to the 
last in that delicate and awful charge. 

From this time, when I left my unhappy friend at Weston, in 
the spring of the year 1794, he remained there, under the tendei', 
vigilance of his affectionate relation. Lady Hesketh, till the latter 
end of July, 1795 ; a long season of the darkest depression, in 
which the best medical advice, and the influence of time, appeared 
equally unable to lighten that afflictive burthen v/hich pressed in- 
cessantly on his spirits. 

At this period it became absolutely necessary to make a great 
and painful exertion, for the mental relief of the various sufferers 
at Weston. Mrs. Unwin was sinking very fast into second child- 
hood ; the health of Lady Hesketh was much impaired ; and the 
dejection of Cowper was so severe, that a change of scene was 
considered as essential to the preservation of his lite. 

Under circumstances so deplorable, his kinsman at Norfolk 
most tenderly and generously undertook to conduct the two vene- 
rable invalids from Buckinghamshire into Norfolk, and so to re- 
gulate their future lives, that every possible expedient might be 
tried for the recovery of his revered relation. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 105 

It is hardly possible for friendship to undertake a charge more 
delicate and arduous, or to sustain all the pains that must neces- 
sarily attend it, with a more constant exertion of gentle fortitude 
and affectionate fidelity. 

The local attachment of Cowper to his favourite village of 
Weston was strong in no common degree, and rendered his mi- 
gi-ation from it, though an event of medical necessity, yet a scene 
of peculiar sufferings. Those who knew his passionate attachment 
to that pleasant village, how deeply he lamented his absence from 
it, and how little he gained by a change of situation, though con- 
sidered as important to the revival of his health, can hardly help 
regretting that he did not close his days in that favourite scene, 
and find, at last, according to the wish that he tenderly expresses 
in the conclusion of the Task, 

*' A safe retreat 
*' Beneath the turf that he had often trod." 

But painfiil and unprofitable as it proved in a medical point of 
view, his removal from XA'eston was very properly considered, by 
his relations, as an act of imperious duty. He quitted it with af- 
fectionate reluctance ; and perhaps I cannot more forcibly express 
both the regard of Co\vper, and my own regard for that endearing 
scene, than by introducing, at this time, when we are taking leave 
of Weston for ever, a little poem, that I believe to be the last 
original work which he produced in that beloved aijode. The 
poem describes not his residence, but the increasing infirmities 
of that aged companion who had so long contributed to his do- 
mestic comfort. I question if any language on earth can exhibit 
a specimen of verse more exquisitely tender. 



To MARY. 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past, 
Since first our sky was overcast — 
Ah, would that this might be the last. 

My Man^ i 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow — 
'Twas mv disti-ess that brought thee low, 

M\' Marv ! 



110 LIFE OF COWPER* 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more. 

My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly would'st fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy %vill. 

My Mary 1 

But well thou playd'st the housewife's part; 
And all thy threads, with magic art, 
Have woimd themselves about this heart. 

My Mary ! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language utter 'd in a dream; 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. 

My Mary ! 

I'hy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light. 

My Mary I 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
\Miat sight worth seeing could I see ? 
The sun would rise in vain for me. 

My Mary ! 

Partakers of tliy sad decline. 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine, 

My Mar}- ! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
That now, at every step thou mov'st 
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st. 

My Mary ! 

And still to love, though prest with iU ; 
In wint'ry age to feel no chill, 
With me, is to be lovely still, 

My Maiy ! 



I 



LIFE OF COWTER. Ill 

But ah ! by constant heed I know 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 

My Mar)-1 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

Mv Man- ! 



On Tuesday the twenty-eighth of July, 1795, Cowper and Mrs. 
Unwin removed, under the care and guidance of Mr. Johnson, 
from Weston to Noith-Tuddenham, in Norfolk, by a journey of 
three days, passing through Cambridge without stopping there. 
In the evening of the first day they rested at the village of Eaton, 
near St. Neot's. Cowper walked, with his young kinsman, in tlie 
church-yard, by moon-light, and spoke of the poet Thomson with 
more composure of mind than he had discovered for many months. 

This conversation was almost his last glimmering of cheer- 
fulness. 

At North-Tuddenham the travellers vrere accommodated with, 
a commodious, untenanted parsonage-house, by the kindness of the 
Reverend Leonard Shelford. Here they resided till the nineteenth 
of August. It was the considerate intention of Mr. Johnson not to 
r€mo\-e the two invalids immediately to his own house in the town 
of East-Dereham, lest the situation, in a market-place, should be 
distressing to the tender spirits of Cowper. 

In their nev.- temporary residence they v/ere received by Miss 
Johnson and Miss Perowne : and here I am irresistibly led to re- 
mark the kindness of Providence towards Cowper, in his darkest 
seasons of calamity, by supplying him with attendants peculiarly 
suited to the exigences of mental dejection. 

Miss Perowne is one of tlxose excellent beings whom nature 
seems to have formed expresily for the purpose of alleviating the 
sufferings of the aflBicted : tenderly \igilant in providing for the 
wants of sicknees, and resolutely firm in administering such relief 
as the most intelligent compassion can supply. Cowper speedily 
observed and felt the invaluable virtues of his new attendant ; and, 
during the last years of his life, he honoured her so far as to prefer 
her personal assistance to that of even" individual around him. 

Severe as his depressive malady appeared at this period, he was 
still able to bear considerable exercise ; and before he left Tudden- 
feara, he -ivalked, with Mr. Johcson, to the neiglibcoriog village of 



112 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Mattishall, on a visit to his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. On survey- 
ing his own poi'trait by Abbot, in the house of that lady, he clasped 
his hands in a paroxysm of pain, and uttered a vehement wish, 
that his present sensations might he such as they were when that 
picture was painted. In August, 1795, Mr. Johnson conducted his 
two invalids to Mundsley, a village on the Norfolk coast, in the 
hope that a situation by the sea-side might prove salutary and 
amusing to Cowper. They continued to reside there till October, 
but without any apparent benefit to the health of the interesting 
sufferer. 

He had long relinquished epistolary intercourse v/ith his most in- 
timate friends, but his tender solicitude to hear some tidings of his 
favourite Weston induced him, in September, to write a letter to 
Mr. Buchanan. It shows the severity of his depression, but shows, 
also, that faint gleams of pleasure could occasionally bi'eak through 
tlie settled darkness of melancholy. 

He begins with a poetical quotation : 

' To interpose a little ease, 
' Let my frail thoughts dally with false surmise 1* 

" I win forget, for a moment, that to whomsoever I may ad^ 
dress myself, a letter from me can no otherwise be welcome than 
as a curiosity. To you. Sir, I address this, urged to it by ex- 
treme penury of employment, and the desire I feel to learn 
something of what is doing, and has been done, at Weston (my 
beloved Weston I ) since I left it. 

" The coldness of these blasts, even in the hottest days, has 
been such, that, added to the irritation of the salt-spray with 
which they are always charged, they have occasioned me an in- 
flammation in the eye -lids, which threatened, a few days since, 
to confine me entirely ; but, by absenting myself as much as possi- 
ble from the beach, and guarding my face with an umbrella, that 
inconvenience is, in some degree, abated. My chamber commands 
a very near view of the ocean, and the ships at high water ap- 
proach the coast so closely, that a man, furnished with better 
eyes than mine, nvight, I doubt not, discern the sailors fi'om the 
window. No situation, at least when the weather is clear and 
bright, can be pleasanter; which you will easily credit, when I 
add, that it imparts something a little resemljling pleasure even to 

me, Gratify me with news of Weston 1 If Mr. Gregson 

and your neighbours, the Courteneys, are there, mention me to 
them in such terms as you see good. Tell me if my poor birds 
are living I ■ I ncv cr sec the herbs I used to giye them witlipub 



LIFE OF COWPER. 113 

a recoflection of them, and sometimes am ready to gather them, 
forgetting that I am not at home. — Pardon this intrusion 1 

" iVLrs. Unwin continues much as usual. 
« Mundaley, Sept. 5, 1795." 



The compassionate and accomplished clergyman to whom this 
letter is addressed, endeavoured, with great tenderness and in- 
genuity, to allure his dejected friend to prolong a correspondence 
that seemed to promise some little alleviation to his melancholy : 
but that cruel distemper baffled all the various expedients that 
could be devised to counteract its overwhelming influence. 

Much hope was entertained from air and exercise, with a fre- 
quent change of scene. — In September Mr. Johnson conducted his 
kinsman (to the promotion of whose recovery he devoted all the 
faculties of his affectionate spirit) to take a survey of Dunham- 
Lodge, a seat that happened to be vacant: it is seated on a high 
ground, in a park, about four miles from SwaflFham. Cowper 
spoke of it as a house rather too spacious for him, yet such as he 
was not unwilling to inhabit ; a remark that induced Mr. John- 
son, at a subsequent period, to become the tenant of this mansion, 
as a scene more eligible for Cowper than the town of Dereham, 
This town they also surveyed in their excursion ; and, after pas- 
sing a night there, returned to Mundsley, which they quitted for 
the season on the seventh of October. 

They removed immediately to Dereham ; but left it in the course 
of the month for Dunham-Lodge, which now became their settled 
residence. 

The spirits of Cowper were not sufficiently revived to allow 
him to resume either his pen or his books ; but the kindness of his 
young kinsman continued to furnish him with inexliaustible amuse- 
ment, by reading to him, almost incessantly, a series of novels, 
which, although they did not lead him to converse on what he 
heard, yet failed not to rivet his attention, and so to prevent his 
afflicted mind from preying on itself. 

In April, 1796, the good, infirm old lady, whose infirmities con-? 
tinned to engage the tender attention of Cowper, even in his 
darkest periods of depression, received a visit from her daughter 
and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Powlev. On their departure, Mr. 
Johnson assumed the office which Mrs. Powley had tenderly per- 
formed for her venerable parent, and regularly read a chapter in 
the Bible every morning to Mrs. Unwin before she rose. It was 
the invariable custom of Cowper to visit his poor old friend the 

VOL, jr. (^ 



114 LIFE OF COWPER. 

moment he had finished his breakfast, and to remain in her apart- 
ment while the chapter was read. 

In June the pressure of his melancholy appeared to be in some 
little degree alleviated, for on Mr. Johnson's receiving the edition 
of Pope's Homer, published by Mr. Wakefield, Cowper eagerly 
seized the book, and began to read the notes to himself with visible 
iftterest. They awakened his attention to his own version of Ho- 
mer. In August he deliberately engaged in a revisal of the whole, 
and for some tim.e produced almost sixty new lines a day. 

This mental occupation animated all his intimate friends with. 
a most lively hope of his speedy and perfect recovery.' But autumn, 
repressed the hope that summer had excited. 
• In September the family removed from Dunham-Lodge to try 
again the influence of the sea-side, in their favourite village of 
Mundsley. 

Cowper walked frequently by the sea ; but no apparent benefit 
aro=e, no mild relief from the incessant pressure of his melan- 
choly. He had relinquished his Homer again, and could not yet 
be induced to resume it. 

Towards the end of October, this interesting family of disabled 
invalids, and their affectionate attendants, retired from the coast 
to the house of Mr. Johnson, in Dereham ; a house now chosen for 
their winter residence, as Dunham-Lodge appeared to them too 
dreary. 

The long and exemplary life of Mrs. Unwin was drawing to-i 
wards a close : — The powers of nature were gradually exhausted, 
aiid on the seventeenth of December she ended a troubled ex- 
istence, distinguished by a. sublime spirit of piety and friendship, 
that shone through long periods of calamity, and continued to glim- 
mer through the distressful twilight of her declining faculties. Her 
death was uncommonly ti^anquil. Cowper saw her about half an 
hour before the moment of expiration, which passed, v/ithout a 
struggle or a groan, as the clock was striking one in the after- 
noon. 

On the morning of that day he said to the servant, who opened 
the window of his chamber, " Sally, is there life above stairs ?" 
A striking proof of his bestowing incessant attention on the suffer- 
ings of his aged friend, although he had long appeared almost to-» 
tally absorbed in his own. 

In the dusk of the evening he attended Mr. Johnson to survey 
the corpse; and after looking at it a few moments, he started sud- 
denly away, with a vehement but luifinished sentence of passionate 
sorrow. 

He spoke of her no morci 



LIFE OF COWPER. 115 

She was buried by torch-light, on the twentj'-third of Decem- 
ber, in the north aisle of Dereham chuj-ch ; and two of lier friends, 
impressed with a just and deep sense of her extraordinary merit, 
have raised a marble tablet to her memory, wiLk the following in- 
scription: 

IN MEMORY OF 

MARY, 

(Widow of the Reverend Morley Unwin, 
andMother of the Reverend William Cawthorn Unwin,) 

Born at Ely, 1724— buried in this Church, 1796. 

Trusting in God, with all her heart and mind. 

This woman prov'd magnanimously kind; 

Endur'd affliction's desolating hail. 

And watch 'd a poet through misfortune's vale. 

Her spotless dust, angelic guards, defend I 

It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend \ 

That single title in itself is fame, 

For all who read his verse revere her name. 



The infinitely tender and deep sense of gratitude that Cowper, 
in his seasons of health, invariably manifested towards this zealous 
and faithful guardian of his troubled existence ; the agonies he 
suffered on our finding her under the oppression of a paralytic 
disease, during my first visit to Weston ; and all his expressions 
to me concerning the comfort and support that his spirits had 
derived from her friendship, — all made me peculiarly anxious to 
know how he sustained the event of her dt^ath. It may be re- 
j>;arded as an instance of providential mercy to this afflicted poet, 
whose sensibility of heart was so wonderfully acute, that his aged 
friend, whose life he had so long considered as essential to his own, 
■was taken from him at a time when the pressure of his malady, a 
perpetual low fever, both of body and mind, had, in a great degree, 
diminished the native energ}- of his faculties and affections. 

Severe as the sufferings of melancholy were to his disordered 
frame, I am strongly inclined to believe that the anguish of heart 
which he would otherwise have endured, must have been infinitely 
more severe. From this anguish he was so far preserved by the 
Hiarvellous state of his own disturbed health, that, instead of" 
^nourning the loss of a person in whose life he had seemed to live, 
all perrojition of tliat loss was mercifully taken fi'oni him; an^ 



116 LIFE OF COWPER. 

from the moment when he hurried away from the inanimate object 
of his filial attachment, he appeared to have no memory of her 
having existed, for he never asked a question concerning her fune- 
ral, nor ever mentioned her name. 

Towards the summer of 1797, his bodily health appeared to im- 
prove, but not to such a degree as to restore any comfortable acti- 
vity to his mind. In June he wrote to me a brief letter, but such 
as too forcibly expressed the cruelty of his distemper. 

The process of digestion never passed regularly in his frame 
during the years that he resided in Norfolk. Medicine appeared 
to have little or no influence on his complaint, and his aversion at 
the sight of it was extreme. 

From Asses' milk, of which he began a Course on the twenty- 
first of June in this year, he gained a considerable acquisition of 
bodily strength, and was enabled to bear an airing in an open car- 
riage before breakfast, with Mr. Johnson. 

A depression of spirits, which suspended the studies of a writer 
feo eminently endeared to the public, was considered, by men of 
piety and learning, as a national misfortune ; and several indivi- 
duals of this description, though personally unknown to Cowper, 
wrote to him in the benevolent hope, that expressions of friendly 
praise, from persons who could be influenced only by the most 
laudable motives in bestowing it, might reanimate the dejected 
spirit of a poet, not sufficiently conscious of the public service that 
his writings had rendered to his country, and of that universal 
esteem which they had so deservedly secured to their authort' 

I cannot think myself authorized to mention the names of all 
■Vvho did honour to Cowper and to themselves on this occasion, but 
I trust the Bishop of LandafF will forgive me, if my sentiments of 
personal regard toWards him induce me to take an aflTectionate 
liberty with his name, and to gratify myself by recording, in these 
pages, a very pleasing example of his liberal attention to the in- 
terests of humanity* 

He endeavoured evangelically to cheer and invigorate the mind 
of Cowper ; but the depression of that disordered mind was the 
effect of bodily disorder so obstinate, that it received not the 
slightest relief from what, in a season of corporeal health, would 
liave afForde'd the most animated gratification to this interesting- 
invalid. 

The pressure of his malady had now made him utterly deaf to 
the most honourable praise. 

He had long discontinued the rcvisal of his Homer ; but, by the 
fentreaty of his young kinsman, he was persuaded to resume it in 
September, 1797, and he persevered in it, oppressed as he was 



LIFE OF COWPER. IIT 

by indisposition, till March, 1799. On Friday evening, the eighth 
of that month, he completed his revisal of the Odyssey, and the 
next morning wrote part of a new preface. 

To watch over the disordered health of afflicted genius, and to 
lead a powerful but oppressed spirit, by gentle encouragement, 
to exert itself in salutary occupation, is an office that requires a 
very rare union of tenderness, intelligence and fortitude. To con- 
template and minister to a great mind, in a state that borders on 
mental desolation, is like surveying, in the midst of a desert, the 
tottering ruins of palaces and temples, where the faculties of the 
spectator are almost absorbed in wonder and regret, and wliere 
every step is taken with awful apprehension. 

It seemed as if Providence had expressly formed the young 
kinsman of Cowper to prove exactly such a guardian to his de- 
clining years as the peculiar exigences of his situation required. 
I ne\er saw the human being that could, I think, have sustained 
the delicate and arduous office (in which the inexhaustible virtues 
of Mr. Johnson persevered to the last) through a period so long, 
with an equal portion of unvaried tenderness and unshaken fide- 
lity. A man who wanted sensibility would have renounced the 
flut}- ; and a man endowed with a particle too much of that valu- 
able, though perilous quality, must have felt his own health ut- 
terly undermined by an excess of sympathy with the sufferings per- 
petually in his sight. Mr. Johnson has completely discharged per- 
haps the most trying of human duties; and, I trust, he will forgive 
tne for this public declaration, that, in his mode of discharging it, 
he has merited the most cordial esteem from ail who love the 
memory of Cowper. Even a stranger may consider it as a strik- 
ing proof of his tender dexterity in soothing and guiding the af- 
flicted poet, that he was able to engage him steadily to pursue and 
finish the revisal and correction of his Homer, during a long pe- 
riod of bodily and mental sufferings, when his troubled mind re- 
coiled from all intercourse with his most intimate friends, and la- 
boured under a morbid abhorrence of all cheerful exertion. 

But in deploring the calamity of my friend, and describing the 
merit of his affectionate attendant, I must not forget that it is still 
incumbent on me, as a faithful biographer, to notice a few circum- 
stances in the dark and distressful years that Cowper had yet to 
linger on earth. In the summer of 1798, Mr. Jolinson was induced 
to vaiy his plan of remaining, for some months, in the marine 
village of Mundsley, and thought it more eligible for the invalid 
to make frequent visits from Dereham to the coast, passing a week 
iat a time by the sea-side. 

Cowper, in his Poem on Retirement, seems to inform us what 



118 LIFE OF COWPER; 

his own sentiments were, in a season of health, concerning the 
regimen most proper for the disease of melancholj'. 

" Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skill 
" Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, 
*' Gives melancholy up to nature's care, 
" And sends the patient into pm-er air." 

The frequent change of place, and the magnificence of marine 
scenery, produced, at times, a Uttle relief to his depressive sensa- 
tions. On t'le seventh of June, 1798, he surve3'ed the Light-house 
at Happisburgh, and expressed some pleasure on beholding, through 
a telescope, several ships at a disto.nce. Yet, in his usual walk with 
Mr. J'hnson, by the sea-side, he exemplified but too forcibly his 
ewn affecting description of melanclioly silence. 

" That silent tongue 
*' Could give advice, cculd censure, or commend, 
" Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend ; 
" Renounc'd alike its office, and its sport, 
" Its brisker and its graver strains fall short : 
" Both fai^ beneath a fever's secret sway, 
" And, like a summer brook, ai^e past away." 

But this description is applicable only in the more oppressive pre- 
ceding years, for of the summer 1798, Mr. Johnsoii says, " We 
had no longer air and exercise alone, but exercise and Homer 
hand in hand." 

On the twenty-fourth of July Cowper had the honour of a visit 
from a lady for whom he had long entertained affectionate respect, 
the Dowpger Ladv Spencer ; and ii was rather remai-kable, that, 
on the very morning she called upon him, he happened to have be- 
gun his revisal of the Odyssey, which he had originally inscribed 
to her. Such an incident, in an happier season, wou'd have pro- 
duced a very enlivening effect on his spirits ; but, in his present 
state, it had not even the power to lead him into any free conversa- 
tion with his amiable visiter. 

The only amusement that he appeared to admit without reluct- 
ance, was the reading of Mr. Juhns^ n, who, indefatigable in the 
supply of such amusement, had exhausted an immense collection 
of novels ; and, at this period, began reading to the poet his own 
works. To these he listened also in silence, and heard all his 
poems recited in order, till the reader arrived at the history of 
' John Gilpin, which he begged not to hear. Mr. Johnson proceeded 



LIFE OF COWPER. 119 

to his manuscript poems. To these he willingly listened, but 
made not a single remark on any. In October, 1798, the pressure 
of his melancholy seemed to be mitigated in some little degree, for 
he exerted himself so far as to write, without solicitation, to Lady 
Hesketh ; and I insert passages of this letter, because, gloomy as it 
is, it describes, in a most interesting manner, the sudden attack of 
his malady, and tends to confirm an opinion that his mental disor- 
der arose from a scorbutic habit, which, when his perspiration was 
obstructed, occasioned an unsearchable obstruction in the finer 
parts of his frame. Such a cause would produce, I apprehend, an 
effect exactly like wliat my suftering friend describes in this af- 
fecting letter. 

Dear Cousin, 

You describe dclightfid scenes, but you 
describe them to one who, if he even saw them, could receive no 
delight from them ; who has a faint recollection, and so faint as 
to be like an almost forgotten dream, that once he was susceptible 
of pleasure from such causes. The country that you have had in 
prospect has been always famed for its beauties ; but the wretch 
who can derive no gratification from a view of nature, even under 
the disadvantage of her most ordinary dress, will have no eyes to 
admire her in any. 

In one day, in one minute,! should rather have said, she became 
an universal blank to me, and though from a different cause, yet 
with an eftect as difficult to remove as blindness itself. 
* * * * * 

Mmtdsley, October 13, 1798. 



On his return from Mundsley to Dereham, in au evening to- 
wards the end of October, Cowper, with Miss Perowne and Mr. 
Johnson, was overturned in a post-chaise. He discovered no ter- 
ror on the occasion, and escaped without injury from the accident. 

In December he received a visit from his highly esteemed friend 
Sir John Throckmorton ; but his malady was, at that time, so op- 
pressive that it rendered him almost insensible to the kind solici- 
tude of friendship. 

He still continued to exercise the powers of his astonishing mind. 
L^pon his finishing the revisal of his Homer, in March, 1799, Mr. 
Johnson endeavoured, in the gentlest manner, to lead him into new 
literary occupation. 

For this purpose, on the eleventh of March, he had before 
him the paper, containing the commencement of his pcem on T/:c 



320 LIFE OF COWPER. 

four Ages, Cowper altered a few lines; he also added a few; 
but soon observed to his kind attendant, " that it was too great a 
work for him to attempt in his present situation." 

At supper, Mr. Johnson suggested to him several literary pro-. 
jects, that he might execute more easily. He replied, " that he 
had just thought of six Latin verses, and if he could compose any 
thing, it must be in pursuing that composition." 

The next morning he wrote the six verses he had mentioned, 
and added a few more, entitling the poem, " Monies glaciaks." 

It proved a versification of a circumstance recorded in a news- 
paper, which had been read to him a few weeks before, without 
his appearing to notice it. This poem he translated into English 
verse, on the nineteenth of March, to oblige Miss Perowne. Both 
the original and the translation shall appear in the Appendix. 

On the twentieth of March he wrote the stanzas, entitled. The 
Cast-away^ founded on an anecdote in Anson's voyage, which his 
memory suggested to him, although he had not looked into the 
book for many years. 

As this poem is the last original production from the pen of Cow- 
per, I shall introduce it here, persuaded that it will be read with 
an interest proportioned to the extraordinary pathos of the subject, 
and the still more extraordinary powers of the poet, whose lyre 
could sound so forcibly, unsilenced by the gloom of the darkest dis- 
temper, that was conducting him, by slow gradations, to the sha- 
dow of death. 



THE CAST-AWAY, 

Obscurest night involv'd the sky ; 

Th' Atalantic billows roar'd ; 
When such a destin'd wretch as I, 

Wash'd headlong from on board, 
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
His floating home for ever left. 

No braver chief could Albion boast 
Tlian he with whom he went, 

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
With warmer wishes sent. 

He lov'd them both, but both in vain, 

Nor him beheld, nor her again. 



LIFE OF GOWPER. 121 

Not long beneath the 'whelming brine, 

Expert to swim, he lay ; 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 

Or courage die away ; 
But wag'd with death a lasting strife, 
Supported by despair of life. 

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd 

To check the vessel's course, 
But so the furious blast prevail'd, 

That, pitiless perforce, 
They left their out-cast mate behind. 
And scudded still before the wind. 

Some succour yet they could afford ; 

And, such as storms allow, 
The cask, the coop, the floated cord 

Delay 'd not to bestow. 
But he, they knew, nor ship, nor slwrc, 
VMiate'er they gave, should visit more« 

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 

Their haste himself condemn, 
Aware that flight, in such a sea, 

Alone could rescue them; 
Yet bitter felt it still to die 
Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 

He long survives, who lives an hour 

In ocean, self-upheld : 
And so long he, with unspent pow'r. 

His destiny repell'd : 
And ever as the minutes flew, 
Entreated help, or cry'd — " Adieu J" 

At length, his transient respite past. 

His comrades, who before 
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, 

Could catch the sound no more. 
For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
The stifling wave, and then he sank. 



VOL. ir. 



122 LIFE OF COWPER. 

• No poet wept him : but the page 

Of narrative sincere, 
That tells his name, his worth, his age, 

Is wet with Anson's tear. 
And tears, by bards or heroes shed. 
Alike immortalise the dead. 

I therefore purpose not, or dream, 

Descanting on his fate, 
To give the melancholy theme 

A more enduring date. 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its 'semblance in another's case. 

No voice divine the storm allay'd. 
No light propitious shone ; 

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid. 
We perish 'd, each alone; 

But I beneath a rougher sea, 

And whelm 'd in deeper gulphs than he. 



In August he translated this poem into Latin verse. In October 
he went, with Miss PeroAvne and Mr. Johnson, to survey a larger 
house in Dereham, which he preferred to their present residence, 
and in which the family were settled in the following December. 

Though his coi-poreal strength was now evidently declining, the 
tender persuasion of Mr. Johnson induced him to amuse his mind 
with frequent composition. Between August and December he 
wrote all the translations, from various Latin and Greek epigrams, 
which the reader will find in the appendix. 

In his new residence he amused himself with translating a few 
fables of Gay into Latin verse. Tlie fable which he used to recite 
as a child, " The hare and many friends," became one of his 
latest amusements. 

Tlie perfect ease and spirit with which his translations from 
Gay are written, induce me to print not only those which he left 
entire, but even the two verses (for they are excellent) with which 
he was begmning to translate another, when increasing maladies 
obliged him to relinquish for ever this elegant occupation. 

These Latin fables were all written in January, 1800. Towards 
tbje end of that month I had requested him to new-model a passage 
in his Homer, relating to some figures of Dsedalus: on the thirty- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 12S 

first of January I received from him his improved version of the 
lines in question, written in a firm and delicate hand. 

The sight of such writing from my long silent friend inspired 
me with a lively but too sanguine hope, that 1 might see him once, 
more restored. 

Alas ! at this period a complication of new maladies began to 
tlireaten his inestimable life ; and the neat transcript of his improved 
verses on the curious monument of ancient sculpture, so gracefully 
described by Homer, verses which I surveyed as a delightful omen 
of future letters from a correspondent so inexpressibly dear to me, 
proved the last effort of his pen. 

On the very day that this endearing mark of his kindness reach- 
ed me, a dropsical appearance in his legs induced Mr. Johnson to 
have recourse to fresh medical assistance. The beloved invalid 
■was, with great difficulty, persuaded to take the remedies pre- 
scribed, and to try the exercise of a post-chaise, an exercise which 
he could not bear beyond the twenty-second of February. 

In March, when his decline became more and more striking, 
he was visited by Mr. Rose. He hardly expressed any pleasure 
on the arrival of a friend whom he had so long and so tenderly re- 
garded ; yet he showed evident signs of regi"et on his departure, 
the sixth of April. 

The long calamitous illness and impending death of a darling 
child precluded me from sharing with Mr. Rose the painful gra- 
tification of seeing, once more, the man whose genius and virtues 
we had once contemplated together, with mutual veneration and 
delight ; whose approaching dissolution we felt, not only as an irre- 
parable loss to ourselves, but as a national misfortune. On the 
nineteenth of April, the close of a life so wonderfully chequered, 
and so universally intei'esting, appeared to be very near. 

On Sunday, the twentieth, he seemed a little revived. 

On Monday he appeared dying, but recovered so much as to eat 
a slight dinner. 

Tuesday and Wednesday he grew apparently weaker every 
liour. 

On Thursday he sat up, as usual, in the evening. 

Friday, the twenty-fifth, at five in the morning, a deadly change 
appeared in his features. 

He spoke no more. 

His last words were uttered in the night :— In rejecting a cordial, 
he said to Miss Perowne, who had presented it to him, " Wliat 
can it signify ?" Yet, even at this time, he did not seem impressed 
with any idea of dying, although he conceived tliat nothing would 
contribute to his hetilth. 



124, LIFE OF COWPER. 

The deplorable inquietude and darkness of his latter years were 
•mercifully ternninated by a most gentle and tranquil dissolution. 
He passed tlirough the awfiil moments of death so mildly, that al- 
though five persons were present, and observing him, in his cham- 
ber, not one of them percei\'ed him to expire : but he had ceased 
to breathe about five minutes before five in the afternoon. 

On Saturday, the third of May, he was buried in a part of Dere- 
ham church, called St. Edmund's Chapel, and the funeral was 
attended by several of his relations. 

He died intestate : his affectionate relation, Lady Hesketh, has 
fulfilled the office of his administratrix, and given orders for a mo- 
nument to his memory where his ashes repose. In the metropo- 
lis, I trust, the public affection for an author so eminently deserv- 
ing, will enable me to make his manuscripts relating to Milton, 
which are now before me, the means of erecting a cenotaph in his 
honour, suitable to the dignity of his poetical character, and to the 
liberality of the nation, that may be justly proud of expressing a 
parental sense of his merit. 

I have regarded my own intimacy with him as a blessing to my- 
self, and the remembrance of it is now endeared to me by the hope 
that it may enable me to delineate the man and the poet with such 
fidelity and truth, as may render his remote, and even his future 
admirers, minutely acquainted with an exemplary being, most 
Worthy to be intimately known and universally beloved. 



The person and mind of Co\vper seem to have been formed with 
equal kindness by nature ; and it may be questioned if she ever 
bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodigality, all the requisites) 
to conciliate affection and to inspire respect. 

From his figure, as it first appeared to me, in his sixty-second 
year, I should imagine that he must have been very comely in his 
youth ; and little had time injured his countenance, since his fea- 
tures expressed, at that period of life, all the pov/ers of his mind 
and all the sensibility of his heart. 

He was of a middle stature, rather strong than delicate in the 
form of his limbs ; the colour of his hair was a light brown, that of 
his eyes a bluish grey, and his complexion ruddy. In his dress he 
was neat, but not finical ; in his diet temperate, and not dainty. 

He had an air of pensive reserve in his deportment, and his ex- 
treme shyness sometimes produced in his manners an indescribable 
mixtui-e of aukwardness and dignity : but no being could be moi-e 
ti'u]y graceful, v/hen he was in perfect health, and perfectly pleased 



LIFE OF COWPER. 125 

with his society. Towards women, in particular, his behaviour 
and conversation were delicate and fascinatuig in the highest 
degree. 

Nature had given him a warm constitution ; and had he been 
prosperous in earlv love, it is probable that he might have enjoyed 
a more uniform and happy tenor of health. But a disappointment 
of the heart, arising from the cruelty of fortune, threw a cloud on 
his juvenile spirit. Thwarted in love, the native fire of his tempe- 
rament turned impetuously into the kindred channel of devotion. 
The smothered flames of desire uniting with the vapours of consti- 
tutional melancholy and the fervency of religious zeal, produced 
altogether that irrcgai^arity of corporeal sensation, and of mental 
health, which gave such extraordinary vicissitudes of splendour 
and of darkness to his mortal career, and made Cowper, at times, 
an idol of the purest admiration, and, at times, an object of the 
sincerest pity. 

As a sufferer, indeed, no man could be more entitled to compas- 
sion, for no man was ever more truly compaF.sionate to the suffer- 
ings of others. It was that rare portion of benevolent sensibility ia 
his nature, which endeared him to persons of all ranks, who had 
opportunities of observing him in private life. The great prince of 
Conde used to say, " No man is a hero to his familiar domestic :" 
but Co^vper was really more. He was beloved and revered with, 
a sort of idolatry in his family ; not from any romantic ideas of 
his magical powers as a poet, but from that evangelical gentleness 
of manners and purity of conduct which illumined the shade of 
his sequestered life. 

I may be suspected of speaking with the fond partiality, the un- 
perceived exaggerations of friendship; but the fear of such cen- 
sure shall not deter me from bearing my most deliberate testimony 
to the excellence of him whose memory I revere, and saying, 
that, as a man, he made, of all men whom I have ever had oppor- 
tunities to observe so minutely, the nearest approaches to moral 
pci-fection. Indeed, a much more experienced judge of mankind, 
and Cowper's associate in early life, Lord Thuvlow, has expressed 
the same idea of his character; for being once requested to de- 
scribe him, he replied with that solemn energ}' of dignified elocu- 
tion, by which he is accustomed to give a very forcible effect to a 
few simple words — " Cowper is truly a good man." 

His daily habits of study and exercise, liis Avhole domestic life, 
is so minutely and agreeably delineated in the series of his letters, 
that it is unnecessarj^ for his biographer to expatiate upon them. I 
have little occasion, indeed, to dwell on this topic; but let me ajjply 
to my young readfers a few expi'cssive words of Louis Racine, in 



126 LIFE OF COWPER. 

addressing to his own son the Life and Letters of his illustrious 

father. " Quand -vous /' aurez connu dans sa famille^ -voua le 

gotiterez mieux, lorsque vous viendrez a le cotmoitre sur le Par-' 
nasse: vous scaurez^ pourquoi ses vers sont toujours pleins de 
Sentimens,"—-—! might add, in alluding to a fev/ of his most ten- 
der and pathetic letters : " C'est une simpUcite de moeurs si ad" 
mirable dans uii homine tout sentiment^ et tout coeur^ qui est cause, 
yu^en copiant pour vous ses lettres^ je verse a tous momens dea 
larmes, parcequil ?ne communique la tendresse^ dont il etoit 
rempli," Cowper greatly resembled his eminent and exem- 
plary brothers of Parnassus, Racine and Metastasio, in the sim- 
plicity and tenderness of his domestic character. 

His voice conspired with his features to announce to all who saw 
and heard him, the extreme sensibility of his heart : and in read- 
ing aloud he furnished the chief delight of those social, enchant- 
ing winter evenings, which he has described so happily in the 
fourth book of the Task. He had been taught, by his parents, at 
home, to recite English verse, in the early years of his childhood; 
and acquired considerable applause, as a chid, in the recital of 
Gay's popular fable, "The hare and many friends : " a circum- 
stance that, probably, had great influence in raising his passion for 
poetry, and in giving him a peculiar fondness for the wild perse- 
cuted animal that he converted into a very grateful domestic com- 
panion. 

Secluded from the world, as Cowper had long been, he yet re- 
tained, in advanced life, uncommon talents for conversation ; and 
his conversation was distinguished by mild and benevolent plea- 
santry, by delicate humour peculiar to himself, or by a higher tone 
of serious good sense, and those united charms of a cultivated 
mind, which he has himself very happily described, in drawing 
the colloquial character of a venerable divine. 

Grave, without dullness ; learned, without pride ; 

Exact, yet not precise ; though meek, keen-eyed ; 

Who, when occasion justified its use, 

Had wit, as Ijright as ready, to produce ; 

Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 

Or from philosophy's enlightened page. 

His rich materials, and regale your ear 

With strains it was a privilege to hear : 

Yet, above all, his luxury supreme. 

And his chief glory, was the gospel theme: 

Amliitious not to shine, or to excel. 

But to treat justly what he lov'd so well. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 127 

Men who withdraw themsehes from tlie ordinary forms of society, 
whether delicacy of healtli, or a passion for study, or both united, 
occasion their retirement from the world, are generally obliged to 
pay a heavy tax for the privacy they enjoy, in having their habits 
of life and their temper very darkly misrepi'esented by the igno- 
rant malice of offended pride. The sweetness and purity of Cow- 
per's real character did not perfectly preserve him from such mis- 
representation. Many persons have been misled so far as to sup- 
pose him a severe and sour sectary, though gentleness and good 
nature were among his pre-eminent qualities, and though he was 
deliberately attached to the established religion of his country. 
The reader may recollect a letter to his young kinsman, who was 
then on the point of taking orders, in which Co^vper sufficiently 
proves his attachment to the church of England ; and he speaks 
so decidedly on the subject, thnt certainly none of the sectaries 
have a right to reckon him in their number. He was, however, as 
his poetrv has most elegantly testified, a most ardent friend to liberty, 
both civil and religious ; and his love of freedom induced him to 
animadvert, with lively indignantion, on every officious and oppres- 
sive exercise of episcopal authority. Few ministers of the gospel 
have searched the scripture more diligently than Cowper, and, in 
his days of health, with a happier effect ; for a spirit of evangeli- 
cal kindness and purity pervaded the whole tenor of his language, 
and all the conduct of his life. 

His infinite good nature, as a literary man, is strikingly dis- 
played in the indulgent condescension with which he gratified two 
successive clerks of Northampton, in writing for them their annual 
copies of mortuary verses. He thought, like the amiable Plutarch, 
that the most ordinary office may be dignified by a benevolent 
spirit. 

In describing himself to his amiable friend, Mr. Park, the en- 
graver, he spoke too slightingly of his own leai-ning ; for he was, 
in truth, a scholar, as any man may fairly be called who is master 
of four languages besides his own. Cowper read Greek and La- 
tin, French and Italian ; but the extraordinary incidents of his life 
precluded him from indulging himself in a multiplicity of books, 
and his reading was conformable to the rule of Pliny, " A'on multOy 
sed multum." 

He had devoted some time to the pencil, and he mentions his 
reason for quitting it in the following passage of a letter to the 
same correspondent. 

Weston, 1792. 
It was only one year that I gave to draw- 
ing, for I found it an employment hurtful to my eyes, which have 



128 LIFE OF COWPER. 

always been weak and subject to inflammation. I finished my at- 
tempts in this way with three small landscapes, which I pre-ented to 
a lady. These may, perhaps, exist, but I have now no correspond- 
ence with the fair proprietor. Except these, there is nothing re- 
maining to show tliat I ever aspired to such an accomplishment. 



The native warmth of Cowper's affections led him to take a 
particular pleasm-e in recording the merit with which he was per- 
sonally acquainted: a remarkable instance of this amiable disposi- 
tion appears in his condescending to translate the Latin epitaph 
on his school-master, Dr. Lloyd. This epitaph, with Cowper's 
version, and his remai'k upon it, my reader may find in the Ap- 
pendix : another epitaph on his uncle, Mr. Ashley Cowper^ I shall 
insert hei'e, as it displays, in a most pleasing point of view, both 
the affectionate ardour and the modesty of its author. 

LINES 

Comfiosedfor a Memorial of Ashley Coivper, Esq. immediatelxf^ 
after his death^ by his JSTeJihew WiLLiAM, of Weston, 

Farewell ! endued with all that could engage 
All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age ! 
In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll 'd 
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old; 
In life's last stage (Oh blessing rarely found !) 
Pleasant as youth, with all its blossoms crown'd ; 
Through every period of this changeful state 
Uuchang'd thyself-^wise, good, affectionate ! 

Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem 
O'ercharg'd with praises on so dear a theme, 
Although thy worth be more than half supprest, 
Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. 

Tlie person v/hom these verses commemorate was himself a» 
elegant poet, and fathei- of the lady to whom so many of Cowper's 
letters are addressed in tiie preceding collection. The reader 
can hardly fail to recollect the very pathetic manner in which the 
poet spoke to the daughter of this gentleman on the death of a 
parent so justly beloved. 

In describing the social and friendly faculties of Cowper, it 



LIFE OF COWTER. 129 

■would be unjust not to bestow particular notice on a talent that he 
]jossessed in perfection, and one that friendship ought especial'y to 
honour, as she is indebted to it for a considerable portion of her 
most valuable delights : I mean the talent of writing letters. 

Melmoth, the elegant translator of Pliny's letters, has observed, 
in an interesting note to the thirtct luli Icuer of the second book, 
how highly the art of epistolary writing was esteemed by the Ro- 
mans, lamenting, at the same time, that our country has not dis- 
tinguislied itself in this branch of literature. 

My late accomplished friend, Dr.Warton,has also remarked, in 
his Hfe of Pope, that '■ in the various sorts of composition in wliich 
the English have excelled, we have, perhaps, the least claim to ex- 
cellence in the article of letters of our celebrated countrymen." 

Those of Pope are generally thought deficient in that air of per- 
fect ease, that unstudied flow of affection, which gives the highest 
charm to epistolary writing: but those unaffected graces which the 
delicate critic wished in vain to find in the letters of Pope, may be 
found, abundant and complete, in the various correspondence of 
Cowper. He was, indeed, a being of such genuine simplicity and 
tenderness, so absolute a stranger to artifice and disguise ; his affec- 
tions were so ardent and so pure, tliat in writing to those he loved 
he could not fail to show what really passed in his own bosom, 
and his letters are most faithful representatives of his heart. He 
could never subscribe to that dangerous and sophistical dogma of 
Dr. Johnson, in his splenetic disquisition on tlie letters of Pope, 
that " friendship has no tendency to secure veracity." 

It certainly has such a tendency, and in proportion to the sense 
and the goodness of the writer; for a sensible, and a good man 
must rather wish to afford his bosom friend the most accurate 
knowledge of his real character, than to obtain a precarious in- 
crease of regard by any sort of illusion. The great charm of 
confidential epistolary intercourse to such a man arises from the 
pei'suasion, that veracity is not dangerous in speaking of his own 
defects, when he is speaking to a true and a considerate friend. 

The letters not intended for the eye of the public have generally 
obtained the greatest share of popular applause ; and for this rea- 
sonj because such letters display no profusion of studied ornaments, 
but abound in the simple and powerful attractions of nature and 
truth. 

Letters, indeed, ^sill ever please, when they are frank, confiden- 
tial con\crsati'-ins on paper between persons of well-principled and 
highly cultivated minds, of graceful manners, and of tender af- 
fections. 

Tlie langljage of such letters must, of counse, have that roixtw 

VOL. II. s 



130 LIFE OF COWPER. 

of ease and elegance peculiarly suited to such composition, and 
most happily exemplified in the letters of Cicero and of Cowper. — 
These two great masters of a perfect epistolary style have both 
mentioned their own excellent and simple rule for attaining it — to 
use only the language of familiar conversation. 

Cowper's opinion of two English writers, much admired for 
the style of their letters, is expressed in the following extract from 
one of his own to Mr. Hill. 

" I have been reading Gray's Woi*ks, and think him sublime. 
* * * * I Qjjj-g thought Swift's letters the best that could be 
written, but I like Gray's better. His humour, or his wit, or what- 
ever it is to be called, is never ill-natured or offensive, and yet, I 
think, equally poignant with the Dean's." 

The letters of Gray are admirable, but they appear to me not 
equal to those of Cowper, either in the graces of simplicity, or in' 
warmth of affection. 

The very svy^eet stanzas that Cowper has written on friendship, 
•would be alone sufficient to prove that his heart and spirit were 
most tenderly alive to all the delicacy and delight of that inestima- 
ble connection. He was indeed such a friend himself, as the voice 
of wisdom describes, in calling a true friend " the medicine of 
life:" and though misfortune precluded him, in his early days, 
from the enjoyment of connubial love, and of professional prospe- 
rity, he may be esteemed as singularly happy in this very import- 
ant consolatory privilege of human existence ; particularly in his 
friendships with that finer part of the creation, whose sensibility 
makes them most able to relish, or to call forth the powers of dif- 
fident genius, and to alleviate the pressure of mental affliction. It 
may be questioned if any poet on the records of Parnassus ever 
enjoyed a confidential intimacy, as Cowper did, with a variety of 
accomplished women, maintaining, at the same time, consummate 
innocence of conduct. 

Pre-eminent as he was, in warmth and vigour of fancy and af- 
fection, the quickness and strength of his understanding were pro- 
portioned to the more perilous endowments of his mind. Though 
he had received from nature lively appetites and passions, his rea- 
son held them in the most steady and laudable subjection. 

The only internal enemy of his peace and happiness, that his in- 
tellect could not subdue, was one tremendous idea, mysteriously 
impi'essed on his fervent imagination, in a scene of bodily disorder, 
and at such periods recurring upon his mind with an overwhelm- 
ing influence, which not all the admirable powers of his ovrn inno- 
cent upright spirit, nor all the luiited aids of art and nature, wei't 
able to counteract. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 131 

Though he "was sometimes subject to imaginaiy fears, he main- 
tained, in his season of health, a most magnanimous reUance on the 
kindness of heaven. This subhme sentiment is forcibly and beau- 
tifully expressed in the following passage, extracted from his cor- 
respondence with Mr. Hill. 

" I suppose you are sometimes troubled on my account, but you 
need not. I have no doubt it will be seen, when my days are closed, 
that I served a master who would not suffer me to want any thing 
that was good for me. He said to Jacob, ' I will surely do thee 
good;' and this he said not for his sake only, but for ours also, if 
we trust in him. This thought relieves me from the greatest part 
of the distress I should else suffer in mj'^ present circumstances, 
and enables me to sit down peacefully upon the Avreck of my 
fortune." 

He also possessed and exerted that becoming fortitude which 
teaches a man to support, under various trials, the sober respect 
that he owes to himself. Praise, however exalted,- did not intox- 
icate him, and detraction was unable to poison his pui'e sense of his 
own merit: so that he thus escaped an infii*mity into which some 
great and good poets have fallen, an infirmity that was remarkable 
in Racine, and which I had once occasion to observe and lament 
in a very eminent departed author of our own country, who comr 
plained to me that time had so far depressed his spirits as to take 
from him all sense of pleasure in public praise, and }'et left him 
acute feelings of pain from pu!)lic detraction. 

Cowper possessed, in his original motives for appearing in the 
character of a poet, the best possible preservative against this 
double infelicity of mind. 

His predominant desire was to render his poetry an instrument 
of good to mankind : his love of fame was a secondary passion, 
and, like all his passions, in perfect subjection to the great princi- 
ples of religious duty which he made the rule of his life. 

It is evident, from the tenor of his correspondence, that he had 
a lively and a proper relish for praise, when justly and affection.- 
ately bestowed. The quickness and the nicety of his feelings, on 
this delicate point, he has displayed in the following letter to a 
ladv, whose various talents he very highly esteemed, on receiving 
her poem, " The Emigrants^'' addressed to him in a dedicayon 
niost wortliy of such a patron. 



132 LIFE OF COWPER" 



To Mrs, CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

Weston^ July 25, 1793* 
My dear Madam, 

Many reasons concurred to make me 
impatient for the arrival of your most acceptable present, and 
among them was the fear lest you should, perhaps, suspect me of 
tardiness in acknowledging so great a favour ; a fear that, as often 
as it prevailed, distressed me exceedingly. At length I have re- 
ceived it, and my little bookseller assures me that he sent it the 
very day he got it. By some mistake, however, the waggon 
brought it instead of the coach, which occasioned a delay that I 
could ill afford. 

It came this morning, about an hour ago : consequently I have 
not had time to peruse the poem, though, you may be sure, I have 
found enough for the perusal of the dedication. I have, in fact, 
given it three readings, and in each have found increasing 
pleasure. 

I am a whimsical creature. When I write for the public, I 
write, of course, with a desire to please, in other words, to acquire 
fame, and I labour accordingly ; but when I find that I have suc- 
ceeded, feel myself alarmed, and ready to shrink from the acqui- 
sition. 

This I have felt more than once ; and when I saw my name at 
the head of your dedication, I felt it again : but the consummate 
delicacy of your praise soon convinced me that I might spare my 
blushes, and that the demand was less upon my modesty than my 
gratitude. Of that be assured, dear Madam, and of the truest 
esteem and respect of your most obliged and affectionate humble 
servant, 

Wm. COWPER. 

P. S, I should have been much grieved to have let slip this 
opportunity of thanking you for your charming sonnets, and my 
two most agreeable old friends, Monimia and Orlando, 



Cowper felt the full value of applause when conferred by a liber 
ral and a powerful mind ; and I had a singularly pleasing opportu- 
nity of observing the just sensibility of his nature on this point, by 
carrying to him, in one of my visits to Weston, a recent newspa- 
per, including the speech of Mr. Fox, in which that accomplished 
orator had given new lustre to a splendid passage in the Task, by 
reciting it in parliament. The passage alluded to contains the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 13S 

sublime verses on the destruction of the bastile ; verses that were 
t)riginally composed in the form of a prophecy. The eloquence of 
the poet and orator united could hardly iurnish a perfect descrip- 
tion of the double delight which this unexpected honour afforded 
to the author, and to the good old enthusiastic admirer and che- 
risher of his talents, Mrs. Un^vin. Her feelings were infinitely 
the most vi\id on this agreeable occasion ; for the poet, though he 
ti-uly enjoyed such honourable applause, was ever on his guard 
against the perils of praise, and had continually impressed on his 
own devout spirit, his primary motives of poetical ambition. The 
mention of these motives, which conduce, as well as his extraor- 
dinary powers, to distingTiish Cowper in the highest rank of illus- 
trious poets, will naturally lead me to consider him in that point of 
view, and to examine the difficulties he has surmounted, and the 
great aims he has accomplished, in his poetical capacity. 

Ace ident, idleness, want, spleen, love, and the passion for fame, 
have all, in their turns, had such occasional influence over the hu- 
man faculties, as to induce men of considerable mental powers to 
devote themselves to the composition of verse : but the poetical 
character of Cowper appears to have had a much nobler origin. 
To estimate that character according to its real dignity, we should 
consider him as a poet formed by the munificence of nature and 
the decrees of heaven. He seems to have received his rare poeti- 
cal powers as a gift fi'om providence, to compensate the pressure 
of much personal calamity, and to enable him to become, though 
secluded by irregular health from the worldly business, and from 
the ordinary pastimes of men, a singular benefactor to mankind. 

If we attend to the rise and progress of his works, we shall per- 
ceive that such was the predominant aim of this truly philanthropic 
poet, and that, in despight of his manifold impediments and trou- 
bles, heaven graciously enabled him to accomplish the noblest pur- 
pose that the sublimest faculties can devise for their own most ar- 
duous exercise, and most delightful reward. He had cultivated 
his native talent for poetry in early life, although the extreme mo- 
desty of his nature had restrained him from a public display of his 
poetical powers. Through many years of mental disquietude and 
affliction, that powerful talent, which was destined to burst forth 
with such unrivalled lustre, seems to have remained in absolute in- 
activity; but in different seasons of a very long abstinence from 
poetical exertion, his mind had been engaged in such studies (when 
health allowed him to study) as form, perhaps, the best possible 
preparation for great poetical achievements : I mean a fervent 
application to that book which furnishes tlie most ample and be- 
reficial aliment to the heart and to the fancy, the book to wliich 



134 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Milton and Young were indebted for their poetical sublimity, 
Cowper, in reading the Bible, admired and studied the eloquence 
of the prophets. He Avas particularly charmed with the energy 
of their language in describing the wrath of the Almighty. 

By his zealous attention to the scripture, he incessantly trea-r 
sured in his own capacious mind those inexhaustible stores of sen- 
timent and expression which enabled him gradually to ascend the 
purest heights of poetical renown, which rendered him, at last, 
what he ardently wished to prove — the poet of Christianity — the 
monitor of the world. 

It was after a very long and severe fit of mental depression, 
that, by the friendly request of his faithful associate in affliction, 
he sought, in poetical composition of considerable extent, a salu- 
tary exercise for a mind formed for the most active and beneficent 
exertion, though occasionally subject to an utter suspension of its 
admirable powers. I have already mentioned the circumstance, 
communicated to me by Mrs. Unwin, concerning the first exten- 
sive poem, in point of time, that appears in the first volume of 
Cowper. 

" The Progress of Error" seems the least attractive among the 
several admonitory poems of the collection, and we judge from it, 
that even the genius of Cowper required the frequent habit of writ- 
ing verse to display itself to advantage. Yet even this poem, iu 
•which he is said to have made the first serious trial of his long 
suspended talent, has passages of exquisite beauty. Take, for ex- 
ample, his portrait of Innocence and Folly, painted with the delicate 
simplicity and tenderness of Corregio. 

Both baby-featur'd, and of infant size, 

View'd from a distance, and Avith heedless eyes, 

Folly and Innocence are so alike. 

The diflF'rence, though essential, fails to strike: 

Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, 

A simp'ring countenance, a trifling air : 

But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 

Delights us by engaging our respect. 

This poem also discovers, in some degree, that wonderful comr 
bination of very diflerent powers, which the subsequent works of 
Cowper display in delightful profusion. 

The affectionate and accomplished biographer of Burns has fal- 
len (only, I apprehend, from a casual slip of memory) into a sort of 
silent injustice towards Cowper, when in speaking of the few poets 
" who have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, and in sub- 



LIFE OF COWTER. 135 

Kmity," he affirms that " this praise, in modern times, is only due 
to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire." 

Recollection, I am confident, will rapidly convince such a con- 
summate judge of poetical merit, that the works of Cowper con- 
tain many examples of that triple excellence, which is assuredly 
most rare, and which the masterly biographer very justly attri- 
butes to the marvellous peasant whose life and genius he has so 
feelingly and so honourably described. But to return to the poem 
of which I was speaking : it proves that Cowper could occasionally 
blend the moral humour of Hogarth, with the tenderness and sub- 
limity that belong to artists of a superior rank. The portraits of 
the Engii,':!! travellers and the foreign Ab!>e, that are sketched in 
this poem_j are all touched with the spirit of Hogarth. 

The Progress of Error contains also some of those happy verses 
of serious morality, in which Cowper excelled ; verses that, ex- 
pressing a simple truth with pei'fect grace and precision, rapidly 
fix themselves, and with a lasting proverbial influence, on the me- 
mory. I will cite onl}- two detached couplets in proof of my as- 
sertion. 

None sends his arrow to the mark in view, 
Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue. 
Call'd to the temjjle of impure delight; 
He that abstains, and he alone does right. 

As soon as Cowper found that the composition of moral verse 
was medicinal to his ov/n mind, he seems to have formed the noble 
resolution of making his works an universal medicine for the va- 
rious mental infirmities of the world. His own ideas on this snb- 
ject'are perfectly expressed in the following passage from his fii-st 
letter to his friend Mr. Bull, who began his correspondence with 
the poet by a letter of praise, on the publication of his Rrst vo- 
lume. 

" March 24, 1782. 

*' Your letter gave me great pleasure, bath as a testimony of your 
approbation and of your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing 
you, and such as you, and though I must confess that, at the same 
time, I cast a side-long glance at the good-liking of the woi'ld at 
large, I believe I can say it was more for the sake of their ad- 
vantage and instruction than their praise. They are children ; if 
we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with ho- 
ney. If my book is so far honoured as to be made the vehicle of 
true knowledge to any that are ignorant, 1 shall rejoice, and do 
aJreacly rejoice, that it has procured me a proof of your esteem." 



136 LIFE OF COWPER. 

It was probably this idea of tinging the rim of the cup with ho- 
ney (an expression used by Lucretius and by Tasso) which in- 
duced CoAvper to place in the front of his volume the poem en- 
titled Table Talk. The title has in itself an inviiing appearance, 
and tlie lively desultory spirit of the composition sufficiently vindi- 
cates the propriety of the title. It is a rapid and anim.i.tc-d des- 
cant on a variety of interesting topics. The brief tale from that 
humorous and high-spirited Spaniard, Quevedo, is admirably told, 
and I have frequently heard it recited as a most striking example 
of Cowper's talent for such narration, by a very dear depanei 
friend of the most delicate discernment. 

The poet, in this outset of his moral enterprise, bestows a grace- 
ful compliment on his sovereign — ■ 

" His life a lesson to the land he sways." 

AtkI he judged it right to annex to this high compliment such ;>. 
profession of his own independent spirit as everv- ingenuous mind 
must deliglit to observe from tlie i>en of a poet, \\ lifu his life and 
bis writings reflect a reciprocal lustre ou each other. 

A bribe ! 
The worth of his three kingdoms I defy 
To lure me to the baseness of a lie ; 
And of all lies (be that one poet's boast ! ) 
The lie tliat flatters I abhor the most. 

Tills professed abhorrence of adulation was uttered in the rea? 
spirit of simplicity and truth. No poet was ever more perfectly 
free from that base propensity, which is sometimes eri*oneousl) 
imputed to the poetical tribe, who, from their peculiar warmth of 
sensation, are often thought to flatter, when they speak only their 
genuine feelings. 

Perhaps Cowper sometimes indulged himself in a very different 
weakness, if I may call the little excesses of a generous independ- 
ent pride by so harsh an appellation. 

It is incumbent on me to explain the petty foible of my friend to 
which I allude. Having composed, from the impulse of his heart, 
his little poem on the elevation of his intimate companion in former 
days. Lord Thurlow, to the dignity of Chancellor, he condemned it 
to lie in long concealment, fi-oni an apj^reliension that, although ho 
knew the praise to be just, it might be supposed to flow from a sor- 
did and selfish solicitude to derive some advantage from the recent 
grandeur of a man whom he had oace cordially loved, but whom 



LIFE OF COWPER. 13^ 

their difFei'ent destinies had made for many years almost a personal 
stranger to the poet, though never an alien to his heart. 

But to resume the few remarks I wisli to make on the Poem of 
Table Talk. It contains what Cowper could readily command, a 
great variety of style. Much of the poem has the manner of 
Churchill, and particularly the lines that exhibit a strong charac- 
ter of that popular and powerful satirist ; a poet whose highest 
excellence Cowper possessed, with many more refined attractions, 
which the energetic, but coarse spirit of that modern Juvenal could 
not attain. Towards the close of Table-Talk, the poet introduces, 
very happily, what he had proposed to himself as the main scope 
of his own poetical labours — the service that a poet may render to 
the great interest of religion. This he describes in a straui of sub- 
limity, and conti'asts it very ably witli inferior objects of poetical 
ambition. 

From this poem of infinite diversity it would be easy to select 
specimens of almost every excellence that can be found in a work 
of this nature. Truth, however, obliges me to observe, that this 
admirable prelude to the collected poetry of Cowper has a weak 
and ungraceful conclusion. 

The four poems, entitled, Truth, Expostulation, Hope, and Cha- 
rity, arc four Christian exhortations to piety, which may be 
thought tedious and dull by readers who have no relish for devo- 
tional eloquence, or who, however blest with a serious sense of re- 
ligion, ha\ e too hastily admitted the very strange and groundless 
dogma of Dr. Johnson, that " contemplative piety cannot be poe- 
tical;" a position resembling that of the ancient sophist, who de- 
nied the existence of motion, and whose indignant hearer answered 
him by walking immediately in his sight. With such simple and 
forcible refutation, the genius of Cowper replies to the paradoxical 
pedantry of a critic, whose high hilellectual powers, when he ex- 
erts and exhausts them to command and illuminate the expansive 
sphere of poetry, delight and disgust his readers alternately, by a 
frequent mixture of gigantic force and dwarfish imbecility. His 
weak, though solemn sophistry on this subject is completely re- 
futed by the poems of Cowper, because contemplative piety. Which, 
according to the critic's assertion, cannot be poetical, is, in truth, 
one of the most powerful charms by whteh this devout poet accom- 
plishes his poetical enchantment. 

But to return to the four sacred poems that lead me to this re» 
mark. That on Truth exhibits the author's singular talent of 
blending the humorous and the sublime. In his portrait of the 
sanctified pride, he is at once the copyist and the compeer of Ho- 
ejartli : in hii picture of cheerful piety, and true Christian frce- 

VOI„ IT. T 



138 LIFE OF COWPER. 

dom, he soars to a species of excellence that the pencil of Ho* 
garth coiiHi not command. 

Expostulation flows in a more even tenor of sublime admonition : 
it was founded on a sermon preached by the author's zealous and 
eloquent friend, Mr. Newton, and contains the following admirable 
description of what the clergy ought to be. 

The priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere, 
From mean self-interest and ambition clear, 
Their hope in heaven, servility their scorn. 
Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn ; 
Their wisdom pure, and given them from above ; 
Their usefulness insur'd by zeal and love ; 
As meek as the man Moses, and withal 
As bold as, in Agrippa's presence, Paul ; 
Should fly the world's contaminating touch, 
Holy and unpolluted ; are thine such ? 

I will not transcribe the closing couplet, because it appears to 
me one of the few passages in the poet where the warm current of 
his zeal hurried him into a hasty expression of asperity, not in uni- 
son with the native and habitual candour of his contemplative mind. 

The Poem on Hope, although the poet means only to describe 

*' That hope which can alone exclude despair," 

has a gay diversity of colouring, and the dialogue introduced is 
written with exquisite pleasantry. The great and constant aim of 
the author is expressed in his motto, 

" Doceas iter, et sacra ostia pandas." 

In the commencement of his Poem on Charity, the author ren- 
ders a just and eloquent tribute to the humanity of Captain Cook ; 
and in the progress of it bursts into an animated and graceful eu- 
logy on Howard, the visitor of prisons. The sentiments that Cow- 
per endeavours to impress on the heart of his reader, in this series 
of devotional poems, are drawn from the great fountain of intel- 
lectual purity, the gospel ; and to the poet, in his character of a 
Christian Monitor, we may justly and gratefully apply the follow- 
ing verses from this poem on Charity. 

When one that holds communion with the skies 
Has fiU'd his urn where these pure waters rise, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 139 

And once more mingles with us meaner things, 
'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings; 
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide 
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 

In the extensive and admirably varied Poem on Conversation, 
the poet shines as a teacher of manners as well as of morality and 
religion. 

It is remarkable that, in this work, be is particularly severe on 
what he considered as his own peculiar defect, that excess of dif- 
fidence, that insurmountable shyness, which is so apt to freeze the 
current of English conversation. 

Our sensibilities are so acute, 

The fear of being silent makes us mute. 

True modesty is a discerning grace. 

And only blushes in the proper place ; 

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fcar, 

Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear ; 

Humility the parent of the first. 

The last by vanity produced, and nurs'd. 

The circle form'd, we sit, in silent state, 

Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate. 

Yes Ma'am, and no Ma'am, utter'd softly, show, 

Every five minutes, how the minutes go. 

This poem abounds with much admirable description, both serious 
and comic. The portrait of the splenetic man is, perhaps, the most 
highly finished ejiample of comic power ; and the scene of the two 
disciples on their way to Emmaus, is a perfect model of solemn 
and graceful simplicity. I cannot cease to speak of this very at- 
tractive poem without observing, tliat the author has inserted in it 
two passages intended to obviate such objections as he conceived 
most likely to be urged against the tendency of his writings. He 
was aware that the light and vain might suppose him a gloomy 
fanatic, and as a preservative against such injurious misconccp» 
tion, he composed the following just and animated lines. 

What is fanatic frenzy ? scorn 'd so much ! 
And dreaded more than a contagious touch. 
I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear ; 
That fire is catching if ycu draw too near ; 
But sage observers oft mistake the flame, 
,Vud give true piety tliat odious name. 



140 LIFE OF COWPER. 

He then draws an excellent picture of real fanaticism, and sudh 
a picture as could not have been painted by one of her votaries. 

Again, to vindicate the cheerful tendency of the lessons he wished 
to inculcate, he exclaims, 

«— — Let no man charge me, that I mean 
To clothe in sables every social scene, 
And give good company a face severe. 
As if they met around a father's bier ! 

I will add a few verses fr-om the close of the poem, because they 
appear a just description of his own eloquence, both in poetry and 
conversation, when he conversed with those he loved — He is speak- 
ing of a character improved by a proper sense of religion. 

Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a saci'ed cure 
For all that was absurd, prophane, impure : 
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech 
Pursues the course that truth and nature teach ; 
V^^lere'er it winds, the salutaiy stream. 
Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme ; 
While all the happy man possess'd before. 
The gift of nature, or the classic store, 
Is made subservient to the grand design 
For which Heaven form'd the faculty divine. 

The Poem on Retirement may be a delightful and useful lesson 
to those who wish to enjoy and improve a condition of life which 
is generally coveted by all in some pex'iod of their existence. The 
different votaries of retirement are very happily described ; and 
the portrait of Melancholy, in particular, has all that minute 
and forcible excellence, derived from the faithful delineation of 
nature ; for the poet described himself when under the overwhelm- 
ing pressure of that grievous malady. The caution to the lover is 
expressed with all the delicacy and force of the most friendly ad- 
monition ; and the fair sex are too much obliged to the tenderness 
of the poet to resent his bold assertion, that they are not entitled to 
absolute adoration. - 

This poem contains several of those exquisite proverbial coup- 
lets that I have noticed on a former occasion. Verses like the 
following are fit to be treasured in the heart of every man, 

An idler is a watch that wants both hands ; 
^/Vs useless if it goes, as when it stands. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 141 

Absence of occupation is not rest ; 

A mind quite vacant is a mind distrest. 

Religion does not censure, or exlude 
Unnumber'd pleasures, harmlessly pursued. 

The very sweet close of this poem I will not dwell upon at pre- 
sent, because I mean to notice it in collecting, as I advance, the 
most remarkable passages of the poet, in which he has spoken of 
himself. I must not, however, bid adieu to his first volume fcr the 
present, without observing that, of the smaller poems at the end of 
it, three are eminently happy, both in sentiment and expression? 
the verses assigned to Alexander Selkirk, the Winter Nosegay, 
and Mutual Forbearance. 

It may, perhaps, console some fiiture diffident poet, on his first 
appearance in public, if his merits happen to be depreciated by 
the presumptuous sentence of pei-iodical ci-iticism ; it may console 
him to be informed, that when the first volume of Cowper was ori- 
ginally published, one of the critical journals of his day repi-e- 
sented him as a good devout gentleman, without a particle of true 
poetical genius. To this very curious decision we may apply with 
a pleasant stroke of poetical justice, the following couplet from the 
Book so sagaciously described. 

The moles and bats, in full assembly, find, 
On special search, the keen-eyed eagle blind. 

But to those who were inclined to deny his title to the rank and 
dignity of a poet, Cowper made the best of all possible replies, by 
publishing a poem which rapidly and jusly became a prime fa- 
\M3urite with every poetical reader. 

In his Task, he not only surpassed all his former compositions, 
but executed an extensive work, of such original and diversified 
excellence, that, as it arose without the aid of any model, so it 
■yvill probably remain for ever unequalled by a succession of imi- 
tators. 

Unde nil majus generatur ipso, 

Nee viget quicquam simile aut secundum. 

The Task may be called a bird's-eye view of human life. It is 
a minute and extensive survey of every thing most interesting to 
the reason, to the fancy, and to the affections of man. It exhibits 
his pleasures and his pains, his pastimes and his business, his folly 



142 LIFE OF COWPER. 

and his -wisdom, his dangers and his duties, all with such exqui- 
site facility and force of expression, with such grace and dignity of 
sentiment, that rational beings, who wish to render themselves 
more amiable and more happy, can hardly be more advantageously 
employed than in frequent perusal of the Task. 

" O how fayre fruits may you to mortal men 

" From Wisdom's garden give ! How many may 

" By you the wiser and the better prove!" 

To apply three verses, of singular simplicity, from Nicholas Gri- 
moald, (one of the earliest writers of English blank verse) to the 
poet who has added such a large increase of variegated lustre to 
that species of composition. 

The Task, beginning with all the peaceful attractions of sportive 
gaiety, rises to the most solemn and awful grandeur, to the highest 
strain of religious solemnity. Its frequent variation of tone is mas- 
terly in the greatest degree, and the main spell of that inexhausti- 
ble enchantment which hurries the reader through a flowery 
maze of many thousand verses, without allowing him to feel a 
moment of languor or fatigue. Perhaps no author, ancient or 
modern, ever possessed, so completely as Cowper, the nice art 
of passing, by the most delicate transition, from subjects to subjects 
that might otherwise seem but little or not at all allied to each 
other, the rare talent 

" Happily to steer 
" From grave to gay, from lively to severe." 

The Task may be compared to one of the grand fabrics of mu- 
sical contrivance, where a single work contains a vast variety of 
power for producing such harmony and delight as might be ex- 
pected to arise only from a large collection of instruments. The 
auditor is charmed by the vicissitudes of partial excellence, and 
astonished by the magnificent compass of a single production. But 
the supreme attraction of the Task arises from that conviction, 
which all who delight in it cannot fail to feel, that the poet, however 
pre-eminent in intellectual powers, must have been equally pre- 
eminent in tender benevolence of heart. His reader loves him as 
a sympathetic friend, a.nd blesses him as an invaluable instructor. 

The truth of this remark may be illustrated by the following 
verses, which I insert with pleasui'e, although I know not their 
author, as an elegant proof of that affection in a stranger, which 
the poetry of Cowper has such a peculiar tendency to inspire. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 143 

On seeing a Sketch of Coivpeh by Laivrence, 

Sweet bard, whose mind, thus pictur'd in thy face, 
O'er every feature spreads a nobler grace ; 
Whose keen, but soften'd eye appears to dart 
A look of pity through the human heart; 
To search the secrets of man's inward frame; 
To weep with sorrow o'er his guilt and shame. 
Sweet bard, with whom, in sympathy of choice, 
I've oftimes left the world, at nature's voice, 
To join the song that all her creatures raise, 
To carol forth their great Creator's praise: 
Or, wrapt in visions of immortal day, 
Have gaz'd on Truth in Zion's heavenly way. 
Sweet bard, may this thine image, all I know, 
Or ever may, of Cowper's form below, 
Teach one who views it, with a Christian's love, 
To seek, and find thee in the realms above. 



Persons who estimate poetical talents more fi'om the arbitrary 
dictates of established criticism than from their own feelings, may 
be disposed to e>xlude Cowper from the highest rank of poets, be- 
cause he has written no original work of the epic form : — He has 
constructed no fable ; he has described no great action, accomplished 
by a variety of characters, derived either from history or inven- 
tion. But if the great epic poets of all nations were assembled to 
give their suffrages concerning the rank to be assigned to Cowper as 
a poet, I am persuaded they would address him to this effect: "We 
are proud to receive you as a brother, because, if the form of your 
composition is different from ours, you are certainly equal to the 
noblest of our fraternity in the scope and effect of your verse. You 
are so truly a poet by the munificence of nature, that she seems to 
have given jou an exclusive faculty, (resembling the fabulous faculty 
of Midas relating to gold, though given to you for beneficial pui*- 
poses alone) the faculty of turning whatever you touch to a fit 
subject for poetry : you are the poet of familiar life : but you paint 
it with such felicity of design and execution, that, as long as verse 
is valued upon earth as a vehicle of instruction and delight, you 
must and ought to be revered and beloved as pre-eminently in- 
structive and delightful : by having accomplished, with equal feli- 
city, the two great and arduous objects of your art, you have de- 
served to be the most popular of poets." 



lU LIFE OF COW PER. 

Such, I apprehend, would be the praise which all the perfect 
judges of his poetry, could they be selected from every age, past, 
present, and future, would unanimously bestow on the genius of 
Cowper. Yet the Task, though, taken altogether, it is, perhaps, 
the most attractive poem that was ever produced, and such as re- 
quired the rarest assemblage of truly poetical powers for its pro- 
duction, bears, like every work from a human hand, that certain 
mark of a mortal agent — defect. Even the partiality of friendship 
must allow that the Task has its blemishes, and the greatest of 
them is that tone of asperity in reproof, which I am persuaded its 
gentle and benevolent author caught unconsciously from his fre- 
quent perusal of the prophets. The severe invective against the 
commemoration of Handel is the most striking instance of the as- 
perity to which I allude, and it awakened the displeasure of a po- 
etical lady, whose displeasure Cowper, of all men, would have been 
most truly sorry to have excited, had he been as well acquainted 
with the charms of her conversation as he v/as with her literary 
talents. 

Cowper's eminent contemporary, the favourite poet of Scotland, 
seems to have felt, with fraternal sensibility, both the beauties 
and the blemishes of this most celebrated woi'k. 

" Is not the Task a glorious poem ?" says Burns, in one of his 
letters to his accomplished and generous friend, Mrs. Dunlop : 
" the religion of the Task, bating a few scraps of Calvinistlc divi-> 
nity, is the religion of God and nature, the religion that exalts, 
that ennobles man." 

Though Cowper occasionally caught a certain air of Calvinistic 
austerity, he had not a particle of Calvin's intolerance in his heart. 
He could never have occasioned the cruel death of a Servetus. 
Indulgence and good nature were the poet's predominant qualities, 
and their influence was such, that, although his extraordinary ta- 
lents for satire threw perpetual temptation in his way, he declined 
the temptation: he chose to be not a satirist, but a monitor. 
*"'- Fi(<ie sanctitas swmna, comitas par ; iyisectatur vitia non homi- 
nes.'" He wisely observed that the most dignified-satirists are little 
better than mere beadles of Parnassus. He considei^ed satire, 
rather as the bane than the glory both of Dryden and of Pope. In 
truth, though many an upright man has, in a fit of honest moral 
indignation, bcj^un to write satire, in a persuasion that such works 
would benefit the world ai\d do honour to himself, yet even satirists 
of this higlier order have generally found that they did little more 
than gratify the common malignity of the world, and suffer angry 
and blind prejudice and passions to insinuate themselves imper- 
ceptibly into their nobler purposes, disfiguring their Avorks and 



LIFE OF COWPER. 145 

disquieting their lives. Such, perhaps, was the natural train of 
reflection that suggested to Boileau the admirable verse in which 
he feelingly and candidly condemns the path that he had himself 
pursued — 

" C'est un mauvais metier que celui de medire." 

Co^vper felt the truth of this maxim so forcibly, that in his Poem 
on Charity he has turned the sharpest weapons of satire against 
the satirists themselves. 

Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd 
The milk of their good purpose all to curd ; 
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 
By lean despair upon an empty purse. 
The wild assassins start into the street, 
Prepar'd to poignard whomsoe'er tliey meet. 

These lines are alone sufficient to prove that Cowper could 
occasionally assume the utmost severity of invective ; yet nature 
formed him to delight in exhortation more than in reproof; and 
hence he justly describes himself, in his true monitory character, 
in the verses that very sAveetly terminate his instructive Poem on 
Retirement. 

Content, if, thus sequester'd, I may raise 
A monitor's, though not a poet's praise ; 
And while I teach an art too little known, 
To close life wisely, may not waste my own. 

WHien a poet has so nobly entitled himself to the esteem and af- 
fection of his readers, the most fastidious of them can hardly be 
inclined to censure him as an egotist, if he takes more tlian one 
occasion to draw his own portrait. Few passages in Horace are 
read with more pleasure than the verses in which he gives a cir- 
cumstantial account of himself. This reflection induces me to 
add a few lines from the Task, in which the poet has delineated 
his own situation exactly in that point of view which must be most 
pleasmg to those who most feel an interest in his lot. 

The more Ave have sympathised in his afflictions, the more we 
may rejoice in recollecting that he had seasons of felicity, which, 
he, in some measure, makes our own by the delightful fidelity of 
his description. 

VOL. 11. u 



146 LIFE OF COWPER. 

*' Had I the choice of sublunary good, 

What could I wish that I possess not here ? 

Health, leisure, means t' improve it, friendship, peace* 

No loose or wanton, though a wand'ring muse, 

And constant occupation without care. 

Thus bless'd, I draw a picture of that bliss; 

Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds. 

And profligate abusers of a world 

Created fair so much in vain for them. 

Should seek the guiltless joys that I desci'ibe, 

Allur'd by my report ; — but sure, no less. 

That, self-condemn'd, they must neglect the prize,. 

And what they will not taste must yet appi'ove. 

What we admire we praise, and when we praise^ 

Advance it into notice, that its worth 

Acknowledg'd, others may admii-e it too: 

I therefore recommend, though at the risk 

Of popular disg-ust, yet boldly still. 

The cause of Piety, and sacred Ti'uth, 

And Virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd 

Should best secure them, and promote them most; 

Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive 

Forsaken, or througli folly not enjoy 'd." 

Indeed, the great and rare art of enjoying life, in its purest an<J 
sublimest delights, is what this beneficent poet appears most anx- 
ious to communicate, and impress on tlie heart and soul of his 
reader. Witness that most exquisite passage of the Task, where 
he teaches the pensive student, who contemplates the face of 
earth, to survey the works of his Maker witli a tender transport 
of filial exultation. 

" He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of Nature, and though poor, perhaps, compar'd 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the vallies his. 
And the resplendent rivers : His to enjoy, 
With a propriety that none can feel. 
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd. 
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye. 
And smiling say — My Father made them all I 
Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
And by an emphasis of int'rest his, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 147 

Wliose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love 
That plann'd and built, and still upholds a world 
So cloath'd with beauty for rebellious man ? 
Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
In feast, or in the chace, in song, or dance, 
A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd 
Of usurpation, and to no man's Avrong, 
Appropriates nature as his Father's work, 
And has a richer use of yours than you." 

I believe the happiest hours of Cowper's life were those in which 
he was engaged on this noble poem ; and as his happiness was, in a 
great measure, the fruit of his occupation, it is the more to be 
regretted that some hicident, propitious to poetry, did not engage 
his active spirit a second time in the construction of a great origi- 
nal work. 

There was a time, indeed, when his zealous and much regarded 
friend and neighbour, Mr. Gi'eatheed, most kindly exhorted him 
to such an enterprise : an anecdote that I seize this opportunity 
of recording in the woi'ds of that gentleman. 

" Homer being completely translated and committed to the 
press, I endeavoured to urge upon Mr. Cowper's attention the idea 
of a British epic, and would have recommended to him the reign 
of Alfred, the brightest ornament of the English throne, as one of 
the most eventful periods of our history. He discovered reluct- 
ance to the undertaking, and, to the best of my recollection, prin- 
cipally objected to the difficulties attending the introduction of a 
suitable machinery under the Christian dispensation. He pointed 
out the absurdities of Tasso, and the deficiency of Glover in this 
respect, and thought that Milton had occupied the only epic ground 
fit for a Christian poet." 

Cowper would probably have thought otherwise on such a sug- 
gestion, had it been pressed upon his fancy in a more propitious 
season of his life, before his spirit was harassed by many troul)les 
which attended him during the latter years that he bestowed upon 
Homer, and above all, by the enfeebled health of Mrs. Unwin, to 
which he gratefully devoted such incessant attention as must have 
inevitably impeded any great mental enterpriiSe, even if his fervid 
imagination had been happily sti-uck with any less obvious and 
more promising subject for epic song. Had he engaged in such an 



148 LIFE OF COWPER. 

enterprise at a favourable season of his life, I am persuaded he 
would have enriched the literature of his country with a composi- 
tion more valuable than his version of Homer, allowing to that 
version as high a A^alue as translation can boast. 

He possessed all the requisites for the happiest accomplishment 
of the most arduous original work — fancy, judgment, and taste ; 
all of the highest order, and in union so admirable that they height- 
ened the powers of each other. He was singularly exempt from 
the two great sources of literary, and, indeed, of moral imperfec- 
tions — negligence and affectation. From the first he was secured 
by a modest sense of his own abilities, united to a spirit of appli- 
cation, like the alacrity of Caesar — 

' " Nil actum reputans, si quid superesset agendum." 

From affectation of every kind he was perpetually preserved by 
a majestic simplicity of mind, never seduced by false splendour, 
and most feelingly alive to all the graces of truth. But with the 
rarest combination of different faculties for the successful execu- 
tion of any great poetical work, his tender and modest genius, 
sublime as it was, wanted the animating voice of friendship to 
raise it into confident exertion. The Task would not have been 
written without the inspiring voice of Lady Austen. The solemn 
and sage spirit of Numa requii-ed the inspiration of his Egeria. 

Sic sacra Numx ritusque colendos 

Mitis Aricino dictabat nympha sub antro. 

The great pleasure that Cowper felt in the conversation of ac- 
complished women, inspired him with that delicate vivacity with 
which he was accustomed to express his gratitude for a variety of 
little occasional presents that he received from his female friends. 

Dr. Johnson has said surlily and unjustly of Milton, that " he 
never learnt the art of doing little things with grace." But in truth, 
poets who possess such exquisite feelings, and such powers of lan- 
guage, as belonged to Milton and to Cowper, can hardly fail to give 
elegance and grace to their poetical trifles, whenever affection 
leads them to trifle in verse. Cowper, whose sensations of grati- 
tude were singularly strong, was remarkably happy in those 
sprightly poetical compliments which he often addi'essed to ladies, 
in return for some highly welcome, though trivial gift, endeared 
to his affectionate spii'it by his regard for the giver. To illustrate 
this very amiable part of his character, I shall here insert a few 
of these animated and graceful trifles. 



I.TFE OF COWPER. 14$ 



To my Cousin ANNE BODHAM, 

On receiving from her a JVet-ivork Purse inade by herself j 
May A, 1793. 

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
VMien I was young, and thou no more 

Than plaything for a nurse, 
I danced and fondled on my knee, 
A kitten both in size and glee ! 

I thank thee for my Purse ; 

Gold pays the worth of all things here ; 
But not of love; — that gem's too dear 

For richest rogues to win it ; 
I, therefore, as a proof of love, 
Esteem thy present far above 

The best things kept within it. 



To Mrs. KING, 

On her kind Present to the Author — a Patch-ivork Counterpane 
of her oitm making. 

The bard, if e'er he feel at all, 
Must sure be quicken'd by a call 

Both on his heart and head, 
To pay, with tuneful thanks, the care 
And kindness of a lady fair, 

Who deigns to deck his bed. 

A bed like this, in ancient time, 
On Ida's barren top sublimfe, 

(As Homer's epic shows) 
Composed of sweetest vernal flow'rs, 
Without the aid of sun or show'rs. 

For Jove and Juno rose. 

Less beautiful, however gay, 

Is that, which in the scorching day 

Receives the weary swain ; 
Who, laying his long scythe aside, 
Sleeps on some bank, with daisies pied, 

'Till rous'd to toil again. 



150 LIFE OF COWPER. 

What labours of the loom I see I 
Looms numberless have groan'd for me I 

Should ev'ry maiden come 
To scramble for the patch that bears 
The impress of the robe she wears, 

The bell would toll for some. 

And O ! what havoc would ensue ! 
This bright display of ev'iy hue 

All in a moment fled 1 
As if a storm should strip the bowers 
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers, 

Each pockering a shred. 

Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle fair 
Who will not come to pick me bare 

As bird of borrow 'd feather ; 
And thanks to one, above them all, 
The gentle fair of Pirtenhall, 

Who put THE WHOLE TOGETHER. 



GRATITUDE. 

Addressed to Lady HESKE'fttm 

This cap, that so stately appears, 

With ribbon-bound tassel on high, 
Which seems, by the crest that it rears, 

Ambitious of brushing the sky : 
This cap to my cousin I owe. 

She gave it, and gave me beside, 
Wreath'd into an elegant bow, 

The ribbon with which it is tied. 

This wheel-footed studying chair, 

Contriv'd both for toil and repose, 
Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair, 

In which I both scribble and doze, 
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, 

And rival in lustre of that. 
In which, or astronomy lies, 

Fair Cassiopeia sat. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 151 

These carpets, so soft to the foot, 

Caledonia's traffic and pride, 
Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot ! 

Escap'd from a cross-country ride ! 
This table and mirror within. 

Secure from collision and dust, 
At which I oft shave cheek and chin. 

And periwig nicely adjust. 

This moveable structure of shelves, 

For its beauty admired and its use, 
And charged with octavos and twelves, 

The gayest I had to produce, 
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold, 

My poems enchanted I view. 
And hope, in due time, to behold 

My Iliad and Odyssey too. 

This china, that decks the alcove, 

WTiich here people call a beaufette, 
But what the gods call it above 

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : 
These curtains, that keep the room warm, 

Or cool, as the season demands ; 
Those stoves, that, for pattern and form, 

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands. 

All these are not half that I owe 

To one from our earliest youth, 
To me ever ready to show 

Benignity, friendship, and truth: 
For Time, the destroyer, declared, 

And foe of our perishing kind, 
If even her face he has spared, 

Much less could he alter her mind. 

Thus compass'd about with the goods 

And chattels of leisure and ease, 
I indulge my poetical moods 

In many such fancies as these : 
And fancies I fear they will seem, 

Poets' goods are not often so fine ; 
The poets will swear that I dream, 

When I sing of the splendour of jjiioe. 



152 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Though Cowper could occasionally trifle in rhyme, for the sake 
of amusing his friends, with an affectionate and endearing gaiety, 
he appears most truly himself when he exerts his poetical talents 
for the higher purpose of consoling the afflicted. Witness the fol- 
lowing epistle, composed at the request of Lady Austen, to con- 
sole a particular friend of hers. Twenty-five letters, written by 
Mrs. Billacoys, the lady to whom the poem is addressed, were in- 
serted in an early volume of the Theological Miscellany, in which 
the poem also appeared. Mr. Bull has annexed it to Cowper's 
translations from the spiritual songs of Madame Guion, but I wil- 
lingly embrace the oppoi'tunity of re-printing it in this volume, 
from a copy corrected by the author, in the pleasing persuasion 
that it must prove to all religious readers, acquainted with afflic- 
tion, a lenient charm of very powerful eiFect, 



EPISTLE TO A LADY IN FRANCE. 

A Perso7i of great Pietij^ and much afflicted. 

Madam ! a stranger's pui'pose in these lays 
Is to congratulate, and not to praise ; 
To give the ci-eature the Creator's due, 
Were guilt in me, and an offence to you. 
From man to man, and e'en to woman paid, 
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, 
A coin by craft for folly's use design 'd, 
Spurious, and only current with the blind. 

The path of sorrow, and that path alone. 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; 
Ko trav'Uer ever reach'd that blest abode. 
Who found not thorns and briars on his road. 
The world may dance along the flowery plain, 
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, 
Whei'e nature has her yielding mosses spread, 
With unshod feet, and yet unharm'd, they tread, 
Admonish 'd, scorn the caution, and the friend, 
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
But He who kne\v what human hearts would prove, 
How slow to leai'u the dictates of his love ; 
That hard by nature, and of stubborn will, 
A life of ease would make them harder still j 



LIFE OF COWPER. 15: 

In pity to a chosen few, design 'd 
T' escape the common ruin of their kind, 
Caird for a cloud to darken all their years, 
And said — Go spend them in the vale of tears ! 

Oil balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! 
Oh salutary streams that murmur there I 
These flowing from tlie fount of grace above, 
Those breath'd from lips of cvei'lasting love I 
The flinty soil, indeed, their feet annoys, 
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys. 
An envious world will interpose its frown, 
To mar delights superior to its own. 
And many a pang, expericnc'd still within, 
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin ! 
But ills of every shape, of every name. 
Transform 'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim ; 
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast, 
Is given in earnest of eternal rest. 

Ah ! be not sad, although thy lot be cast 
Far fi'om the flock, and in a boundless waste; 
No shepherds' tents within thy view appear, 
But the chief Shepherd even there is near: 
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain 
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain. 
Thy tears all issue from a source divine, 
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine. 

So once, in Gideon's fleece, the dews were found, 
And drought on aU the drooping flocks around. 



It may be observed, to the honour of the poet, that his extreme 
sh}Tiess and dislike of addressing an absolute stranger did not 
preclude him from a free and happy use of his mental powers, 
when he had a prospect of comforting the distressed. His diffi- 
dence was often wonderfully great, but his humanity was greater. 

Diffident as Cowper was by nature, though a poet, he wanted 
not the becoming resolution to defend his poetical opinions, when 
lie felt them to be just ; particularly on the structure of English 
verse, which he had examined with the eye of a master. As a 
proof of his resolution, I transcribe, with pleasure, a passage from 
one of his earhest letters to his bookseller, Mr. Johnson. 

VOL. II. X 



154 LIFE OF COWPER. 

It happened that some accidental revisei- of the manuscript had 
taken the liberty to alter a line in a poem of Cowper's. This 
liberty drew from the offended poet the following very just and 
animated remonstrance, which I am anxious to preserve, because 
it elucidates, with great felicity of expression, his deliberate ideas 
on English versification* 

" I did not write the line, that has been tampered with, hastily, 
or without due attention to the construction of it ; and what ap- 
peared to me its only merit is, in its present state, entirely annihi- 
lated. 

" I know that the ears of modern verse-writers are delicate to 
an excess, and their readers are troubled Avith the same squeam- 
ishness as themselves : so that if a line do not run as smooth as 
quicksilver, they are offended. A critic of the present day serves 
a poem as a cook serves a dead tui-key, when she fastens the legs 
of it to a post, and draws out all the sinews. For this we may 
thank Pope : but unless we could imitate him in the closeness and 
compactness of his expression, as well as in the smoothness of his 
numbers, we had better drop the imitation, which serves no other 
purpose than to emasculate and weaken all we write. Give me a 
manly rough line, with a deal of meaniug in it, rather than a whole 
poem full of musical periods, that have nothing but their oily 
smoothness to recommend them. 

" I have said thus much, as I hinted in the beginning, because I 
have just finished a much longer poem than the last, which our 
common friend will receive by the same messenger that has 
charge of this letter. In that poem there are many lines which 
an ear so nice as the gentleman's who made the above men- 
tioned alteration would undoubtedly condemn, and yet (if I may 
be permitted to say it) they cannot be made smoother without be- 
ing the worse for it. There is a roughness on a plumb which no- 
body that understands fruit would rub off, though the plumb would 
be much more polished without it. But lest I tire you, I will only 
add, that I wish you to guard me for the future from all such 
meddling ; assuring you that I always write as smoothly as I can, 
but that I never did, never will, sacrifice the spirit or sense of a 
passage to the sound of it." 

In showing with what proper spirit the poet could occasionally 
vindicate his own verse, let me observe, that although he fre- 
quently speaks in his letters with humorous asperity concerning 
critics, no man could be more willing to receive, with becoming 
modesty and gratitude, the friendly assistance of just and terape- 



LIFE OF COWPER. iSS 

rate criticism. Some proofs of this humility, so laudable, if not 
imcommon in poets of great powers, I shall seize this opportunity 
of producing, in a few extracts from a series of the author's letters 
to his bookseller. 

Westoiiy Feb. 11, 1790. 
Dear Sir, 

I am very sensibly obliged by the remarks 
of Mr. Fuseli, and beg that you will te'.l him so : they afford me 
opportunities of improvement which I shall not neglect. When 
he shall see the press-copy, he will be convinced of this, and will 
be convinced likewise, that, smart as he sometimes is, he spares me 
often when I have no mercy on myself. He will sec, in short, al- 
most a new translation. * * * \ assure you faith- 
fully, that whatever my faults may be, to be easily or hastily satis- 
fied with what I have written is not one of them. 

Sept. r, 1790. 
It grieves me that, after all, I am obliged 
to go into public without the whole advantage of Mr. Fuseli 's ju- 
dicious strictures. My only consolation is, that I have not forfeited 
tliem by my own impatience. Five years are no small portion of 
a man's life, especially at the latter end of it, and in those five 
years, being a man of almost no engagements, I have done more 
in the way of hard work than most could have done in twice 
the number. I beg you to present my compliments to Mr. Fuseli, 
with many and sincere thanks for the services that his own moi'C 
important occupations would allow him to render me. 



It is a singular spectacle for those who love to contemplate the 
progress of social arts, to observe a foreigner, who has raised him- 
self to liigh rank in the arduous profession of a painter, correcting, 
and thanked for correcting tlie chief poet of England in his English 
version of Homer. 

From tlie series of letters now befoi'e me, I cannot resist the 
temptation of transcribing two more passages, because they dis- 
play the disposition of Cowper in a very amiable point of view. 
The first relates to Mr. Newton — the second to Mr. Johnson him- 
self. 

Weston^ Oct. 3, ir90. 

Mr. Newton having again requested that 

tlae preface which he wrote for my first volume may be prefixed to 



156 LIFE OF COWPER. 

it, I am desirous to gratify him in a particular that so emphatically 
bespeaks his friendship for me ; and should my books see anothei' 
edition, shall be obliged to you if you will add it accordingly. 

I beg that you will not suffer your rever- 
ence, either for Homer or his translator, to check your continual 
examinations. I never knew, with certainty, till now, that the? 
marginal strictures I found in the Task-proofs were yours. The 
justness of them, and the benefit I derived from them, are fresh 
in my memory, and I doubt not that their utility will be the same 
in the present instance. 
Weston, Oct. 30, 1790. 

I am anxious to preserve this singular anecdote, as it is honour- 
able both to the modest poet, and to his intelligent bookseller. 



■ But let me recall the reader's attention to the letter, in which 
the poet delivered so forcibly his own ideas of English versifica- 
tion. 

This letter leads me to suggest a reason why some readers 
imagine that the rhyme of Cowper is not equal to his blank verse. 
Their idea arises from his not copying the melotiy of Pope : but 
from this he deviated by design, and his character of Pope, in the 
Poem of Table-Talk, may, when added to this letter, completely 
unfold to us his reasons for doing so. The lines to which I allude 
are these : 

Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, 

In verse well disciplin'd, complete, compact, 

Gave virtue and morality a grace. 

That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, 

Levied a tax of wonder and applause. 

E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws : 

But he (his musical finesse was such. 

So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) 

Made poetry a mere mechanic art. 

And every warbler has his tune by heart. 

Cowper conceived that Pope, by adhering too closely to the use 
of pure Iambic feet in his verse, deprived himself of an advantage 
to be gained by a more lil)eral admission of other feet, and parti- 
cularly Spondees, which, according to Cowper's idea, have a very 



LIFE OF COW PER. 15f 

liappy effect in giving variety, dignity, and force. He exempli- 
fies his idea by exclaiming, in the folloAving couplet of the same 
poem, 

Give me the line that ploughs its stately course 
Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by force. 

It is, however, remai"kable,that Cowper, in his Poem on the Na- 
tivity, from the French of Madame Guion, seems to have chosen 
the style of Pope, which, on other occasions, he had rather tried to 
avoid. His versification in the poem just mentioned, affoi-ds a 
complete proof tliat, in rhjrnie, as in blank verse, he could at once 
be easy, forcible, and melodious. 

Churchill had before objected to an excess of unvaried excel- 
lence in the verses of Pope : an objection that appears rather 
fastidious than reasonable. Happy the poet whose antagonist 
can only say of his language, that it is too musical, and of his 
fancy, that it is too much under the guidance of reason ! Such are 
the charges by which even scholars and critics, of acknowledged 
taste and good nature, have, from the influence of accidental pre- 
judice, endeavoui'ed to lessen the poetical eminence of Pope ; a 
poet remarkably mifortunate in his numerous biographers: for 
Ruffhead, Avhom Warburton employed in a task, which gratitude 
might have taught him to execute better himself, is neglected as 
dull: Johnson, though he nobly and eloquently vindicates the dig- 
nity of the poet, yet betra}s a perpetual inclination to render him 
contemptible as a man : and Warton, though by nature one of the 
most candid and liberal of critics, continues, as a biographer, to 
indulge that prejudice which had early induced him, in his popular 
Essay on tliis illustrious poet, to endeavour to sink him a little in 
the scale of poetical renown : not, I believe, from any envious mo- 
tire, but as an affectionate compliment to his friend Young, the 
patron to whom he inscribed his Essaj'. 

Of this continued prejudice, which this good naturcd critic was 
himself very far from perceiving, he exhibits a remarkable proof 
in his Life of Pope, by the following facetious severity on the trans- 
lation of Homer. 

" No two things can be so unlike as the Iliad of Homer and 
the Iliad of Pope : to colour the images, to point the sentences, to 
lavish Ovidian graces on the simple Gi-ecian, is to put a bag-wig 
on Mr. Townley's fine busto of the venerable old bard." 

This sentence has all the sprightly pleasantry of my amiable ol4 
friend : but to prove that it is critically unjust, the reader has only 
to observe that Pope is very far from having produced that ludicrous 



15S LIFE OF COWPER; 

effect which the comparison of the critic supposes. Spectator* 
must laugh, indeed, at a bust of Homer enveloped in a wig; but the 
reader has not a disposition to laughter in reading the Iliad of 
Pope. On the contrary, in many, many passages, where it devi- 
ates widely from the original, a reader of taste and candour ad- 
mires both the dexterity and the dignity of the translator ; and if 
he allows the version to be unfaithful, yet, with Mr. Twining, (the 
accomplished translator of Aristotle, who has justly and grace- 
full}- applied an expressive Latin verse to this glorious translation, 
so bitterly branded with the epithet unfaithful) he tenderly ex- 
claims, 

" Perfida, sed quamvis perfida, cara tamen." 

I have been induced, by a sense of what is due to the great works 
of real genius, to take the part of Pope against the lively injustice 
of a departed friend, for whose literary talents, and for who-e so- 
cial character, I still retain the sincerest regard. The delij^ht 
and the improvement derived from such noble works as the Ho- 
mer of Pope, ought to guard every scholar against any partialities 
of friendship that can render him blind to the predominant merits, 
or severe to tlie petty imperfections of such a work. Predominant 
merits and petty imperfections are certainly to be found in the 
translation of Pope. These are temperately and judiciously dis- 
plaj^ed in the liberal essay of that gentle and amiable critic, Spense, 
on the Odyssey ; who, though he was rather partial to blank verse, 
yet regarded Pope's Homer as a work entitled to great admira- 
tion. It is, indeed, a woi-k so truly admirable, that I should be 
sorry if the more faithful version of my favourite friend could 
materially injure the honour of its author : but between Pope and 
CoAvper there is no contest : " They are performers on different 
instruments," as Cowper has very properly remarked himself, in 
the preface to his own translation. 

V\'e may apply to the two translators, therefore, the compre- 
hensive Latin words that Gibbon applied to two eminent lawyers, 
" Magls pares^ quavi similes ;" but of the two translators it may 
be added, that each has attained such a degree of excellence in 
the mode he adopted, as will probably remain unsurpassed for 
e^ er. Instead, therefore, of endeavouring to decide which is en- 
titled to the greater portion of praise, a reader, who has derived 
gi-eat pleasure froni'both, may rather wish (for the embellishment 
and honour of the English language) that it may exhibit a double 
version of every great ancient poet, perfectly equal in spirit and 
beauty to the Homers of Pope and of Cowper. My impartial es- 
teem for the merits of tliesc two pre-eminent translators had al- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 1S9 

most tempted me to introduce in this composition a minute display 
of their altei-nate successes and failures in many most striking pas- 
sages of Homer ; but, on reflection, it appears to me, that such a 
comparison, if fairly and extensively conducted, would form an 
episode too large for the body of my work, and the spirit of my de- 
parted friend seemed to admonish me against it, in tlic following 
words of his Grecian favourite : 

'Eiooa-i yxp -rot rccvra jxiT' A^ynoi; cyo^zvn;. 

" Neither praise me much, nor Iilamc, 
For these are Grecians in whose eai's thou spcak'st, 
And know me well." 

Convfier's Homer's Iliad^ 10. 

I will therefore confine myiself to the general result of such a 
comparison, and I am persuaded that all unprejudiced scholars, 
who may amuse themselves by pursuing the comparison, will find 
the result to be this : that both the English poets have rendered 
noble justice to their original, taken altogether; that, in separate 
parts, each translator has frequently sunk licneath him, and each, 
in their happier moments, surpassed the model which they endea- 
voured to copy. 

Pope had partners in the latter portion of his work : Cowper 
accomplished his mighty labour by his own exertions : and he 
seems to have taken an honest pleasure in recording, with his 
own hand, the time and the pains that he bestowed on his 
translation. 

In the copy of Clarke's Homer, which he valued particularly 
as the gift of his friend, Mr. Rose, he inserted the following me- 
morandum. 

^^ My translation of the Iliad I began on the twenty-first day of 
November, in the year 1784, and finished the translation of the 
Odyssey on the twenty -fifth day of August, 1790. During eight 
months of this time I was hindered by indisjjosition, so that I have 
been occupied in the work, on the whole, five years and one 
month. ^VVm. Cowper. 

" Mem: I gave the work another rcvisal while it was in the 
press, which I finished March 4, 1791." 

When we add to this account all the time which he gave to pre- 
paratio'as for his second edition, it will hardly be hyperbolical to 



160 LIFE OF COWTER. 

say, that this deeply studied version of Homer was, like the siege 
of Troy, a work cf ten j-ears. Nor will this time appear won- 
derful, when we recollect how determined Cowper v/as to be as 
minutely faithfid as possible to the exact sense of his original. The 
following passage from one of his letters to Mr. Park will show 
hovf much he gratified his own mind by such scrupulous fidelity. 
In thanking his friend for a present of Chapman's Iliad, he says: 

" Weston, July 15, 1793. 
" I have consulted him in one passage of 
som.e difficulty, and find him giving a sense of his own, not at all 
warranted by the words of Homer. Pope sometimes does this, 
and som.etimes omits the difficult part entirely. I can boast of hav- 
ing done neither, though it has cost me infinite pains to exempt 
myself from the necessity." 

The late Mr. Wakefield, in re-publiiihing Pope's Homer, has 
mentioned Cowper's superior fidelity to his original witli the libe- 
ral praise of a scholar ; but he falls, I think, into injudicious se- 
verity on the structure of his verse — a severity the more remark- 
able, as he warmly censures Boswell for unfeeling fietulance 2.xA 
inaolent dogmatism, in speaking of Cowper's translation. Mr. 
Wakefield, though a man of extensive learning and acute sensi- 
bility, appears to me in some measure unjust both to Cowper and 
to Pope. He labours to prove that Pope was miserably defective 
in the knowledge of Greek, and questions the exactitude of Lord 
Bathurst's testimony, in the anecdote that seemed to vindicate the 
translator's acquaintance with tiie original. It is in my power to 
strengthen the credibility of that anecdote by a circumstance with- 
in my own memory, which I mention wit'u pleasure, to refute a 
strange uncandid supposition, that Pope did not read himself the 
Greek which he profest to translate, but trusted entirely to other 
translators. Many years ago I had in my hands a small edition 
of Homer, (Greek, without Latin) and it was the veiy copy that 
Pope used in his translation. It had a few memorandums in his 
own hand-writing, ascertaining the lines he translated on such and 
such days. I might ha\"e bouglit the book for a price considerably 
above its usual value, but I was at the time unhappily infected 
with Warton's prejudice against the genius of Pope, and from the 
influence of that prejudice I failed to purchase a book which, " on 
my mended judgment, if I offend not to say it is mended," I should 
have rejoiced to acquire by doubling the price. May this petty 
anecdote be a Avaming to every literary youth, of an ardent spirit, 
not to adopt too hastily ideas that may lessen his regard for such 



LIFE OF COWPER. 161 

celebrated writers as time and experience will probably endear to 
his more cultivated mind. 

It is, indeed, a prejudice net imcommon in the literary world, 
that little i-espect is due to jjoetical translators. The learned and 
amiable Jortin says, in his Life of Erasmus, " The translating of 
poets into other languages, and into \erse, seems to be an occu- 
pation beneath a good poet ; a work in which there is much labour 
and little honour." 

Jortin was led to this idea by some expressions in a letter from 
Erasmus to Eobanus Hessus, who translated Homer into very ani- 
mated Latin verse. As that translator did not employ a living lan- 
guage in his version of the great poet, his correspondent might 
justly apprehend that the credit of his work wouM not be answei'- 
able to its labour. But surely the case is very different, when 
poets, who have gained reputation by original works in a modern 
language, devote their talents to make their countrymen, learned 
or unlearned, easily and agreeably intimate with the poetical fa- 
vourites of the ancient world. 

Jortin presumes that pecvmiaiy advantage must be a primary 
motive with a translator of extensive works; but there is a nobler 
incentive to such composition, and one that, I am persuaded, was 
very forcibly felt both by Pope and Cowper: I raCcin the generous 
gratification that a feeling spirit enjoys in a fair prospect of adding 
new lustre to the glory of a favourite author, to wliom he has been 
often indebted for inexhaustible delight. He labours, indeed ; but 
he frequently labours 

" Studio faUente laborem." 

Yet the magnitude of such works entitles them to no oi'dinary 
praise, when they are accomplished with considerable success. 
Every nation ought to think itself highly indebted to translators 
who enrich tlieir native language by wcrks of such merit as the 
Homers of Pope and of Cowper, because a long translation to the 
greatest masters of poetical diction is a sort of fatiguing dance 
])erformed in fetters. It certainly was so to Pope, and even to 
Cowper, whose versification, in his Homer, though so excellent 
that it gives to his translation what Johnson calls the first excel- 
lence of a translator, " to be read v. iili pleasure by tliose who 
know not the original," yet seems not, in every part, to have that 
exquisite union of force, freedom and fluency, v/hich is felt so 
delightfully through all the Ijooks of the Task. It is there that 
the versification cf Cowper is most truly Homeric, tliat it perpe- 
tually displays what Plutarch describes as the characteristic of 

VOL. II. V 



162 LIFE OF COWPER. 

Homer's verse, compared with that of Antimachus, " a certain 
charm, superadded to other graces and power, an appearance of 
having been executed with dexterous facility."* 
■^ Perhaps of all poets, ancient and modern, Homer, and Cowper 
in his original composition, exhibit this charm in the highest de- 
gree. They both have the gift of speaking in verse, as if poetry 
were their native tongue. 

The poetical powere of the latter were indeed a gift, and his. 
use of them Avas worthy of the veneration which he felt towards 
the giver of every good. He has accomplished, as a poet, the sub- 
limest object of poetical ambition — he has dissipated the general 
prejudice tliat held it hardly possible for a modern author to suc- 
ceed in sacred poetry — he has proved that verse and devotion 
ai-e natural allies — ^lie has shown that true poetical genius cannot be 
more honourably or more delightfully employed than in diffusing 
through the heart and mind of man, a filial affection for his Ma- 
ker, with a firm and cheerful trust in his word. He has sung in a 
strain equal to the subject, the blessed Advent of universal peace j 
and perhaps the temperate enthusiasm of friendship may not ap- 
pear too presumptuous in supposing that his poetry will have no 
inconsiderable influence in preparing the world for a consumma- 
tion so devoutly to be wished. 

Those who are little inclined to attribute such mighty powers to 
modern vei-se may yet allow, that the more the works of Cowper 
are read, the more his readers will find reason to admire the va- 
riety and tlie extent, the graces and the energy of his literary ta- 
lents. Tlie universal admira,tion excited by these will be height- 
ened and endeared, to the friends of virtue, by the obvious reflec- 
tion, that his writings, excellent as they api^ear, were excelled by 
the gentleness, the benevolence, and the sanctity of his life. To the 
merits of such a life, I could wish that a more early intimacy with 
my departed friend had enabled me to render more ample justice ; 
but affection has made me industrious in my endeavours to supply, 
from the purest sources of intelligence, all the deficiency of my per- 
sonaT knowledge ; and in composing this cordial tribute to a man 
■whose history is so universally interesting, my chief ambition has 
been to deserve the approbation of his pure spirit, who appeared 
to me on earth aniong the most amiable of earthly friends, and 

* H fjnv AvTt,u«;^y •jroirKrn; xm to. Aiovuirty ^ii>yfa.i^r)iJ.ocra,y ruv KoXo- 
(pwviwv HT)(yv iy(p-ncc xxi ro->ov lySiQicca-fxivoi'; -hca xaraTrovw? eouce : rat; ds 
Ni)tOjt-t.«;;^y y^a'ptx^i; kou rot? O/jtwpy crxip^o.*? fAsroc. tw? i»XA«; duva^Ewj km 

Plutarch, iu Timokone^ 



I 



LIFE OF COWPER. 16S 

"whom I cherish a lively hope of beholding ii\ a state of happier ex- 
istence, with the spirits of " just men made perfect." Pardon me, 
thou tenderest of mortals, if I ha\e praised thee with a warmth 
of aifection that might appear to thy diffident nature to border on 
excess. I am not conscious that I have, in the slightest particular, 
over-stepped the modesty of truth ; but, lest expressions of my own 
should have a more questionable shape, I will close this imperfect, 
though affectionate memorial, by applying to thee those tender 
and beautifiil verses which Cowley (one of thy favourite poets) 
addressed to a poetical brother, in all points, perhaps, and assu- 
Jredly in genius, by many degrees, thy inferior. 

Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide, 

And build vain pyramids to mortal pride : 

Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand) 

Hast brought them nobly home, back to their holy land. 

Poet and Saint, to thee are justly given, 

The two most sacred names of Earth and Heaven. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

It has been once more my lot, during the process of printing an 
extensive work, to lose a friend whom I had anxiously hoped to 
please with a sight of my completed publication. I allude to Lady 
Austen, whose name is justly mentioned with honour in the Life 
of Cowper, as she possessed and exerted an influence so happily 
favourable to the genius of the poet. Before I began the present 
work, I had the pleasure and the advantage to form a personal 
acquaintance with this lady : she favoured me, in a very gracefiil 
and obliging manner, with much valuable information, and with 
some highly interesting materials for the history of our fi-iend, who 
had sportively given her the title of sister, and who, while their 
intercourse lasted, treated her with all the tenderness and all the 
confidence of a brother. 

Her maiden name was Richardson : she was married, very early 
in life, to Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, find resided with him in 
France, where he died. Her intercourse with Cowper is already 
related. In a subsequent period she was married to a native of 
France, Mr. De Tardif, a gentleman and a poet, wlio has ex- 
pressed, in many elegant French verses, his just and deep sense 



164 LIFE OF COWPER. 

of her accomplished, endearing character. In visiting Paris with 
him, in the course of the last summer, she sunk under the fatigue 
of the excursion, and died in that city on the twelfth of August, 
1802. 

My obligations to her kindness induce me to terminate this brief 
account of a person so cordially regarded by Cowper, and so in- 
strumental to the existence of his greatest work, with an offering of 
respect and gratitude, in the shape of an 

EPITAPH. 

Honour and Peace, ye guardians kindly just, 

Fail not in duty to this hallow 'd dust ! 

And mortals (all whose cultur'd spirits know 

Joys that pure faith and heavenly verse bestow) 

Passing this tomb, its buried inmate bless. 

And obligation to her powers confess. 

Who, when she grac'd this earth, in Austen's name, 

Wak'd, in a poet, inspiration's flame! 

Remov'd, by coimsel, like the voice of spring. 

Fetters of rhffidence from Fancy's wing. 

Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask. 

And from the mind of Cowper— call'd the Task ! 



I close my work with these verses, from a persuasion that I can 
pay no tribute to the memory of Cowper more truly acceptable to 
his tender spirit, than praise sincerely bestowed on the objects of 
his affection. 



Sc«^ 



1 



APPENDIX. 

(No. 1.) 

ORIGINAL POEMS. 



To JOHN JOHNSON, 
On /lis presenting vie with an antique Bust of Homek. 

J\.INSMAN belov'd, and as a son by me, 
WTien I behold this fruit of thy regard, 
The sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bai'd, 

I rev'rence feel for him, and love for thee. 

Joy too, and gi'ief ; much joy, that there should be 
Wise men, and learn 'd, who grudge not to reward, 
With some applause, my bold attempt, and hard. 

Which others scorn. Critics by courtesy ! 

The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine, 
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail ; 

Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
Proves dross when balanc'd in the Christian scale ! 

Be wiser thou ! — Like our fore-father Donne, 
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone ! 



To the Reverend Mr. NEWTON, 
On his Return from Eamsgate, 

That ocean you of late survey 'd. 

Those rocks I too have seen, 
But I, afflicted and dismay'd. 

You tranquil and serene. 



166 APPENDIX. 

You from the flood-controuling steep 
Saw stretch 'd before your view, 

With conscious joy, the threat'ning deep) 
No longer such to you. 

To me, the waves that ceaseless broke 

Upon thfe dang'rous coast, 
Hoarsely, and ominously, spoke 

Of all my treasure lost. 

Your sea of troubles you have past, 
And found the peaceful shore ; 

I, tempest toss'd, and wreck'd at last) 
Come home to port no more. 



LOVE ABUSED. 

What is there in the vale of life 
Half so delightful as a wife, 
When friendship, love, and peace combine 
To stamp the marriage -bond divine ? 
The stream of pure and genuine love 
Derives its current from above ; 
And earth a second Eden shows 
Where'er the healing water flows: 
But ah, if from the d}/kes and dt-ains 
Of sensual nature's fev'rish veins. 
Lust, like a lawless, headstrong flood, 
Impregnated with ooze and mud, 
Descending fast on ev'ry side, 
Once mingles with the sacred tide, 
Farewell the soul-enliv'ning scene ! 
The banks that wore a smiling green, 
With rank defilement overspread, 
Bewail their flow'ry beauties dead. 
The stream, polluted, dark and dull, 
Diffused into a Stygian pool. 
Through life's last melancholy years 
Is fed with ever-flowing tears. 

Complaints supply the zephyr's part, 
And sighs that heave a breaking heart. 



APPENDIX. l&r 

EPITAPH 

On Mr. Chester, of Chicheley, 

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, 

'Till all who knew him follow to the skies. 

Tears therefore fall, where Chester's ashes sleep ; 

Him, wife, friends, brothers, children, servants weep— 

And justly — few shall ever him transcend 

As husband, parent, brother, master, friend. 

EPITAPH 

On Mrs. M. Higgins, of Weston. 

Laurels may flourish round the conqu'ror's tomb, 
But happiest they who win the world to come : 
Believers have a silent field to fight. 
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. 
They in some nook, where little known they dwell, 
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell : 
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, 
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. 

To Count GRAVINA. 
071 his transiting the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse. 

My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew, 

And steep 'd not now in rain, 
But in Castalian streams, by you, 

Will never fade again. 

INSCRIPTION 

For a Stone, erected at the sowing of a Grove of Oaks at Chilling- 
ton, the Seat of Thomas Giffard, Esquire. 1790. 

Other stones the sera tell 
When some feeble mortal fell; 
I stand here to date the birth 
Of these hardy sons of earth. 

Which shall longest brave the sky. 
Storm, and frost? — these Oaks or I? 
Pass an age or two away, 
I must moulder and decay j 



168 APPENDIX. 

But the years that crumble me 
Shall invigorate the tree, 
Spread the branch, dilate its size. 
Lift its summit to the skies. 

Cherish honour, virtue, truth ! 
So shalt thou prolong thy youth: 
Wanting these, however fast 
Man be fixt, and foi'm'd to last, 
He is lifeless even now, 
Stone at heart, and cannot grow. 



INSCRIPTION 

For a Hermitage in the Author's Garden, 

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 
Built as it has been in our waning years, 
A rest afforded to our weary feet. 
Preliminary to the last retreat. 



STANZAS 

Oil the late indecent Liberties taken with the Remains of the great 
MiLfoN Anno \79Q. 

Me too, perchance, in future days, 

The sculptur'd stone shall show, 
With Paphian myrtle, or witli bays 

Parnassian, on my brow. 

But I, or ere that season come, 

Escap'd from every care. 
Shall reach my refuge in tlie tomb. 

And sleep securely there.* 

So sang, in Roman tone and stile, 

The youtliful bard ere long, 
Ordain'd to grace his native isle 

With her sublimest sonsr. 



* Fovsitan et nostros ducat dc maimoie vultus 
Nccleiis aut Paphia myiii aut Parnasside laurj 
Fronde comas — At ego secura pace quiescam. MlV.tii. 



APPENDIX. 169 



Who, then, but must conceive disdain j 

Hearing the deed unblest 
Of wretches who have dar'd prophane 

His dread sepulchral rest ? 

Ill fare the hands that heav'd the stones 

Where Milton's ashes lay, 
That trembled not to grasp his bones, 

And steal his dust away. 

Oh ill requited bard ! neglect 

Thy living worth repay'd, 
And blind idolatrous respect 

As much affronts the dead. 



A TALE, 

Founded on a Fact which hafifiened in January, 1779, 

Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream, 

There dwelt a wretch, who breath 'd but to blaspheme. 

In subterraneous caves his life he led. 

Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread. 

When on a day, emerging from the deep, 

A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep) 

The wages of his weekly toil he bore 

To buy a cock, whose blood might win him more ; 

As if the noblest of the feather'd kind 

Were but for battle, and for death design'd ; 

As if the consecrated hours were meant 

For sport, to minds on cruelty intent : 

It chanc'd (such chances Providence obey) 

He met a fellow-lab'rer on the way. 

Whose heart the same desires had once inflam'd— 

But now the savage temper was reclaim'd. 

Persuasion on his lips had taken place ; 

For all plead well who plead the cause of grace ! 

His iron-heart Avith scripture he assail'd, 

Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. 

His faithful bow the miglity preacher drew, 

Swift, as the lightning-glimpse, the arrow flew ; 

He wept, he trembled ; cast his eyes around, i 

To find a worse than he : But none he found. 

VOL. II. Z 



170 APPENDIX. 

He- felt his sins, and wonder 'd he should feel. 
Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal. 

Now, farewell, oaths, and blasphemies, and lies 1 
He quits the sinner's, for the martyr's prize. 
That holy day was wash'd with many a tear, 
Gilded with hope, j'et shaded too by fear. 
The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine 
Learn'd by his alter'd speech — the change divine ! 
Laugh 'd when they should have wept, and swore the day 
Was nigh, when he would swear as fast as they. 
" No," said the penitent, " such words shall share 
" This breath no more, devoted now to pray'r. 
" Oh ! if thou seest, (thine eye the future sees) 
" That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these ; 
" Now strike me to the ground, on which I kneel, 
" Ere yet this heart relapses into steel ; 
" Now take me to that Heav'n I once defy'd, 
" Thy presence, thy embrace !" — He spoke, and dy'd ! 



A TALE. 

In Scotland's realm, where trees are few, 

Nor even shi'ubs abound ; 
But where, however bleak the view, 

Some better things are found ; 

For husband there and wife may boast 

Their union undefil'd ; 
And false ones are as rare almost 

As hedge-rows in the wild: 

In Scotland's realm, forlorn and bare, 
This hist'ry chanc'd of late — 

This hist'ry of a wedded pair, 
A chaffinch and his mate. 

The spring drew near, each felt a breast 

With genial instinct fill'd ; 
They pair'd, and only wish'd a nest. 

But found not where to build. 



APPENDIX. 171 



The heaths uncover'd, and the moors, 
Except with snow and sleet ; 

Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores 
Could yield them no retreat. 

Long time a breeding place they sought, 
'Till both grew vex'd and tir'd; 

At length a ship arriving, brought 
The good so long desir'd. 

A ship ! — could such a restless thing 

Afford them place to rest ? 
Or was the merchant charg'd to bring 

The homeless birds a nest ? 

Hush 1 — silent hearers profit most I — 

This racer of the sea 
Prov'd kinder to them than the coast — 

It serv'd them with a tree. 

But such a tree I 'twas shaven deal j 

The tree they call a mast, 
And had a hollow with a wheel, 

Through which the tackle pass'd. 

Within that cavity aloft 

Their roofless home they fixt} 

Form'd with materials neat and soft. 
Bents, wool, and feathers mixt. 

Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor, 
With russet specks bedight: — 

The vessel weighs — forsakes the shore. 
And lessens to the sight. 

The mother bird is gone to sea. 
As she had chang'd her kind ; 

But goes the mate ? Far wiser, he 
Is doubtless left behind. 

No ! — Soon as from ashoi*e he saw 

The winged mansion move ; 
He flew to reach it, by a law 

Qf never-failing love I 



172 APPENDIX, 

Then perching at his consort's side, 
Was briskly borne along; 

The billows and the blasts defied, 
And cheer'd her with a song. 

The seaman, with sincei'e delight, 
His feather'd shipmate eyes, 

Scarce less exulting in the sight, 
Than when he tows a prize. 

For seamen much believe in signs, 
And from a chance so new, 

Each some approaching good divines, 
And may his hopes be true ! 

Hail, honour'd land ! a desert, where 
Not even birds can hide, 

Yet parent of this loving pair. 
Whom nothing could divide. 

And ye, who rather than resign 

Your matrimonial plan ; 
Were not afraid to plough the brine 

In company with man. 

To whose lean country, much disdain 
We English often show ; 

Yet from a richer, nothing gain 
But wantonness and woe. 

Be it your fortune, year by year. 
The same resource to prove ; 

And may ye, sometimes landing here, 
Instruct us how to love ! 



This tale is founded on an anecdote which the author found in 
the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the 
following words. 

Glasgow^ May 23d, 

In a block or pully, near the head of the mast of a gabert, now 
lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. 
The nest was built Avhile the vessel lay at Greenock, and was 



I 



APPENDIX. 178 

followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally 
lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not for- 
saken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, 
while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hulk 
for food. 



STANZAS, 

Addressed to Lady HESKEfBy by a Lady, in returning a Poem 
of Mr. Cowper's^ lent to the Writer on Condition she should 
neiiher show it, nor take a Copy, 

What wonder ! if my wavering hand 

Had dar'd to disobey. 
When Hesketh gave a harsh command, 

And Co\vper led astray ? 

Then take this tempting gift of thine, 

By pen uncopied yet : 
But can'st thou. Memory, confine, 

Or teach me to forget ? 

More lasting than the touch of art 

Her characters remain ; 
When written by a feeling heart 

On tablets of the brain. 



CoPVPER's Reply. 

To be remember'd thus is fame, 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the few, like her, the same, 

The press might rest for me. 

So Homer, in the memoiy stor'd 

Of many a Grecian belle, 
Was once preser^-'d — a richer hoard, 

But never lodg'd so well. 



APPENDIX. 

(No. 2.) 

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 

From the Greek of Julianus. 

A. SPARTAN, his companions slain, 

Alone from battle fled ; 
His mother, kindling with disdain 

That she had boi'ne him, struck him dead : 

For courage, and not birth alone, 
In Sparta, testifies a son. 

On the same.) by Palladas, 

A Spartan, 'scaping from the fight, 
His mother met him in his flight. 
Upheld a falchion to his breast, 
And thus the fugitive address'd : 

" Thou can'st but live to blot with shame 
" Indelible thy mother's name, 
" While ev'ry breath that thou shalt draw 
" Offends against thy country's law : 
" But if thou perish by this hand, 
" Myself, indeed, throughout the land, 
" To my dishonour shall be known 
" The mother still of such a son ; 
" But Sparta wiU be safe and free, 
" And that shall serve tcv comfort me," 



I 



APPENDIX. 175 



AN EPITAPH. 



My name — my country — what are they to thee ? 
What — whether base or proud, my pedigree ? 
Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — 
Perhaps I fell below them all — what then ? 
Suffice it, stranger, that thou see'st a tomb — 
Thou know'st its use — it hides — no matter whom. 



Allot her. 

Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain 
With much hard labour in thy service worn. 
He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain, 
And he these olives that the vale adorn. 

He fill'd with grain the glebe, the rills he led 
Through this green herbage, and those fruitful bow'rs: 
Thou, therefore, Earth, lie lightly on his head, 
His hoary head, and deck his grave with fiow'rs* 

Another, 

Painter, this likeness is too strong, 
And we shall mourn the dead too long. 

Another* 

At three-score winters end I died 
A cheerless being, sole and sad; 
The nuptial knot I never tied, 
And wish my father never had. 

£y Callimachus, 

At morn we plac'd on his funereal bier 
Young Melanippus ; and at even-tide. 
Unable to sustain a loss so dear, 
By her own hand his blooming sister died. 

Thus Aristippus mourn 'd his noble race, 
Annihilated by a double blow ; 
Nor son could hope, nor daughter more t' embrace. 
And all Cvi'ene sadden'd at his woe. 



176 APPENDIX. 



On MlLflADES. 

Miltiades, thy valour best 
(Although in every region known) 
The men of Persia can attest, 
Taught by thyself at Marathon. 



On an Infant. 

Bewail not much, my pai-ents, me, the prey 
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulcher'd here. 
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year, 
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay, 
Your young Callimachus ; and if I knew 
Not many joys, my griefs were also few. 



By Heraclides. 

In Cnidus born, the consort I became 
Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name. 
His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride, 
But bore two children at a birth, and died. 
One child I leave to solace and uphold 
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old ; 
And one, for his remembrance sake, I bear 
To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there. 



071 the Reed. 

I was of late a bari'en plant. 
Useless, insignificant, 
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore, 
A native of the marshy shore ; 
But gather'd for poetic use. 
And plung'd into a sable juice. 
Of Which my modicum I sip, 
With narrow mouth and slender lip. 
At once, although by nature dumb. 
All-eloquent I have become, 
And speak with fluency untired, 
As if by Phoebus self inspired. 



APPENDIX. V 177 



To Health, 



Eldest bom of pow'rs divine, 
Blest Hygeia ! be it mine 
To enjoy what thou can'st give, 
And henceforth with thee to live : 
For in pow'r if pleasure be, 
Wealth, or num'rous progeny ; 
Or in amorous embrace, 
Where no spy infests the place ; 
Or in aught that Heav'n bestows 
To alleviate human woes. 
When the wearied heart despairs 
Of a respite from its cares ; 
These and ev'ry true delight 
Flourish only in thy sight. 
And the sister Graces Three 
Owe, themselves, their youth, to thee, 
Without whom we may possess 
Much, but never happiness. 



On the Astrologers, 

Th' Asti'ologers did all alike presage 
My uncle's dying in extreme old age ; 
One only disagreed. But he was wise, 
And spoke not till he heard the fun'ral cries. 



On an Old Woman, 

Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said, 

But 'tis a foul aspersion ; 
She buys them black, they therefore need 

No subsequent immersion. 



On Invalids, 

Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they 
Who look for death, and fear it every day, 

VOL. II. A a 



178 APPENDIX. 

On Flatterer9» 

No mischief worthier of our fear 

In nature can be found, 
Than friendship, in ostent sincere. 

But hollow and unsound. 

For luU'd into a dang'rous dream, 

We close infold a foe, 
Who strikes, when most secure we seem, 

Th' inevitable blow. 



On the Sivallow. 

Attic maid ! with honey fed, 
Bear'st thou to thy callow brood 

Yonder locust from the mead, 
Destin'd their delicious food? 

Ye have kindred voices clear, 
Ye alike unfold the wing. 

Migrate hither, sojourn here. 
Both attendant on the spring. 

Ah, for pity, drop the prize ; 

Let it not, with truth, be said 
That a songster gasps and dies, 

That a songster may be fed. 



071 late acquired Wealth. 

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes 
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour ; 

Who nought enjoy 'd, while young, denied the means; 
And nought, when old, enjoy 'd, denied the pow'r. 

On a true Friend, 

Hast thou a friend ? Thou hast, indeed, 

A rich and large supply, 
Treasure to serve your ev'ry need, 

\^'cll-manag'd, till you die. 



APPENDIX. 179 



On a Bath, by PlaVo. 



Did Cytherea to the skies 

From this pellucid lymph arise ? 

Or was it Cytherea's touch, 

When bathing here, that made it such ? 



On a Fowler^ by IsiODORVS. 

With seeds and bird-lime, from the desert air, 

Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare. 

No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss, 

Nor luxury knew, save libei'ty, nor bliss. 

Thrice thirty years he liv'd, and to his heirs 

His reeds bequeath'd, his bird-lime, and his snares. 



On JVioBE. 

Charon, receive a family on board, 
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl ; 

Apollo and Diana, for a word 
By me too proudly spoken, slew us all. 



On a good Man. 

Traveller, regret not me ; for thou shalt find 

Just cause of sorrow none in my decease. 
Who, dying, children's children left behind ; 

And with one wife liv'd many a year in peace. 
Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three, 

And oft their infants in my bosom lay ; 
Nor saw I one of all derived from me 

Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away. 
Their duteous hands my fim'ral rites bestow'd, 

And me my blameless manners fitted well 
To seek it, sent to the serene abode 

Where sliades of pious men for ever dwell. 



180 APPENDIX. 



On a MiseTm 

They call thee rich, I deem thee poor- 
Since, if thou dar'st not use thy store, 
But sav'st it only for thine heirs, 
The treasure is not thine, but theirs. 



Another. 

A Miser, traversing his house, 

Espied, unusual there, a mouse, 

And thus his uninvited guest, 

Briskly inquisitive, address'd : 

" TeU me, my dear, to what cause is it 

" I owe this unexpected visit?" 

The mouse her host obliquely eyed, 

And, smiling, pleasantly replied, 

" Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard, 

" I come to lodge, and not to board." 



Anothe7\ 

Art thou some individual of a kind 

Long-liv'd by nature as the rook or hind ? 

Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such, 

Thou hast excuse, and scarce can'st heap too much. 

But man thou seem'st ; clear therefore from thy breast 

This lust of treasure — folly at the best ! 

For why should'st thou go wasted to the tomb. 

To fatten with thy spoils, thou know'st not whom ? 



On Female Inconstancy. 

Rich, thou had'st many lovers — poor, hast none, 
So surely Avant extinguishes tlie flame ; 

And she who call'd thee once her pretty one. 
And her Adonis, now inquires tliy name. 



APPENDIX. .181 

Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where, 
In what strange country can thy parents live, 

Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware 
That want's a crime no woman can forgive ? 



On the Grassho/i/ier. 

Happy songster, perch'd above 
On the summit of the grove. 
Whom a dew-drop cheers to sing 
With the freedom of a king. 
From thy perch survey the fields 
Where prolific nature yields 
Nought that willingly as she, 
Man surrenders not to thee. 
For hostility or hate 
None thy pleasures can create* 
Thee it satisfies to sing 
Sweetly the return of Spring ; 
Herald of the genial hours, 
Harming neither hei'bs nor flow'rs. 
Therefore man thy voice attends 
Gladly — thou and he are friends; 
Nor thy never-ceasing strains, 
Phoebus or the muse disdains, 
As too simple or too long, 
For themselves inspire the song. 
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, 
Ever singing, sporting, playing. 
What has nature else to show 
Godlike in its kind as thou ? 

On HekmocraTia, 

Hermocratia named — save only one, 
Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none. 
For neither Phoebus pierc'd my thriving joys. 
Nor Dian — she my girls, or he my boys. 
But Dian rather, when my daughters lay 
In partuiition, chas'd their pangs away ; 
And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared 
A vig'rous youth, by sickness unimpaired. 
Oh Niobe I far less prolific, see 
Thy boast against Latona sham'd by me I 



182 APPENDIX. 



From Menandes. 

Fond youth, who dream'st that hoarded gold 

Is needful, not alone to pay 
For all thy various items sold 

To serve the wants of ev'ry day- 
Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat, 

For sav'ry viands season'd high, 
But somewhat more important yet — 

I tell thee what it cannot buy. 

No treasure, had'st thou more amass'd 
Than fame to Tantalus assign'd. 

Would save thee from the tomb at last; 
But thou must leave it all behind : 

I give thee, therefore, counsel wise ; 

Confide not vainly in thy store, 
However large — much less despise 

Others comparatively poor. 

But in thy more exalted state, 

A just and equal temper show, 
That all who see thee, rich and great. 

May deem thee worthy to be so. 



On Pallas Bathing. 

From a Hymn of Callimachus. 

Nor oils of balmy scent produce. 
Nor mirror for Minerva's use ; 
Ye nymphs who lave her ! she, array'd 
In genuine beauty, scorns their aid. 
Not even when they left the skies. 
To seek on Ida's head the prize, 
From Paris' hand, did Juno deign, 
Or Pallas in the chrj^stal plain 
Of Simois' stream, her locks to trace, 
Or in the mirror's polish'd face. 
Though Venus oft with anxious care 
Adjusted twice a single hair. 



APPENDIX. 183 



To DEMOSrHENIS» 



It flatters and deceives thy view, 
This mirror of ill-polish'd ore; 

For were it just, and told thee ti'ue, 
Thou would'st consult it never more. 



On a similar Character, 

You give your cheeks a rosy stain. 
With washes dye your hair ; 

But paint and washes both are vain 
To give a youthful air. 

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil; 

No labour will efface 'em ; 
You wear a mask of smoothest oil ; 

Yet still with ease we trace 'em. 

An art so fruitless then forsake, 
Which, though you much excel in, 

You never can contrive to make, 
Old Hecuba young Helen. 



On an ugly Felloio, 

Beware, my friend, of chrystal brook, 
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, 

Thy nose, thou chance to see. 
Narcissus' fate would then be thine, 
And, self-detested, thou would'st pine 

As self-enamour'd he. 



On a battered Beauty. 

Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth, you buy 

A multifarious store : 
A mask at once would all supply. 

Nor would it cost you more. 



184 APPENDIX. 



On a Thief. 



When Aulas, the nocturnal thief, made prize 
Of Hermes, swift-winged envoy of the skies — 
Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine, 
Who, when an infant, stole Apollo's kine, 
And whom, as arbiter and overseer 
Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here — 
Hermes ! he ci'ied, you meet no new disaster j 
Oftimes the pupil goes beyond his master. 



On Pedigree-, from Epicharmus. 

My mother, if thou love me, name no more 
My noble birth. Sounding at every breath 
My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly, 
As to their only refuge, all from whom 
Nature withholds all good besides: they boast 
Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs 
Of their forefathers, and from age to age 
Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race. 
But whom hast thou beheld, or can'st thou name, 
Deriv'd from no forefathers ? Such a man 
Lives not ; for how could such be born at all? 
And if it chance, that, native of a land 
Far distant, or in infancy depriv'd 
Of all his kindred, one who cannot trace 
His origin, exist, why deem him sprung 
From baser ancestry than theirs who can ? 
My mother, he whom nature at his birth 
Endow 'd with virtuous qualities, although 
An jEthiop and a slave, is nobly born. 



On Envy, 

Pity, says the Theban bard, 
From my wishes I discard 
Envy: let me rather be, 
Rather far a theme for thee. 
Pity to distress is shown; 
Emy to the great alone. 



^ 



APPENDIX. 185 

So the Theban — But to shine 
Less conspicuous be mine ! 
I prefer the golden mean 
Pomp and penury between. 
For alarm and peril wait 
Ever on the loftiest state, 
And the lowest, to the end, 
Obloquy and scorn attend. 

By Philemon. 

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent, 
And give them bulk beyond what nature meant. 
A parent, brother, friend deceas'd, to cry, 
" He's dead indeed, but he was born to die ;" 
Such temperate grief is suited to the size 
And burthen of the loss, is just and wise. 
But to exclaim, " Ah ! wherefore Avas I bom, 
" Thus to be left, for ever thus forlorn ?" 
Who thus laments his loss, invites distress, 
And magnifies a woe that might be less. 
Through dull despondence to his lot resigned, 
And leaving reason's remedy behind. 

By MoscHVS. 

I slept, when Venus enter'd : To my bed 

A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, 

A bashful-seeming boy, and thus she said : 

" Shepherd receive my little one : I bring 

" An imtaught love, whom thou must teach to sing." 

She said, and left him. I suspecting nought, 

Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, 

How reed to reed Pan first with ozier bound, 

How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest soimd. 

How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire 

Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre. 

Such were my themes : my themes nought heeded he. 

But ditties sang of am'rous sort to me, 

The pangs that mortals and immortals prove 

From Venus' influence and the darts of love. 

Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught ; 

His lessons I retain'd, and mine forgot. 

VOL. II. Bb 



APPENDIX. 

(No. 3.) 

TRANSLATIONS from HORACE and VIRGIL. 



THE 

FIFTH SATIRE 

OF THE 

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. 

(Piiiited ill Dur.combe's Horace.) 



A humorous Descrifition of the Author's Journey from Rome 
to Brundusium, 

JL WAS a long journey lay before us, 
When I, and honest Heliodorus, 
Who far in point of rhetoric 
Surpasses ev'ry living Greek, 
Each leaving oui- respective home, 
Together sally'd forth from Rome. 

First at Aricia we alight, 
And there refresh, and pass the night, 
Our entertainment rather coarse 
Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse ; 
Thence o'er the causeway, soft and fair. 
To Apiiforum we repair. 
But as this road is well supply'd 
(Temptation strong) on either side 
With inns commodious, snug and warm, 
We split the journey, and perform 
In two days time, what's often done 
By brisker travellers in one. 
Here, rather choosing not to sup 
Than with bad water mix my cup, 



APPENDIX. l«jr 



After a warm debate, in spite 

Of a provoking appetite, 

I sturdily resolv'd at last 

To balk it, and pronounce a fast, 

And in a moody humour wait. 

While my less dainty comrades bait. 

Now o'er the spangled hemisphere 
Diffus'd, the starry train appear, 
When there arose a desp'rate brawl, 
The slaves and bargemen, one and all, 
Rending their throats, (have mercy on us I) 
As if they were resolv'd to stun us ; 
*' Steer the barge this way to the shore ! 
" I tell you, we'll admit no more ! 
" Plague ! will you never be content ?" 
Thus a whole hour at least is spent, 
While they receive the sev'ral fares, 
And kick the mule into his gears. 
Happy, these difficulties past. 
Could we have fall'n asleep at last! 
But, what with humming, croaking, biting, 
Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting. 
These tunefiil natives of the lake 
Conspir'd so keep us broad awake. 
Besides, to make the concert full. 
Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull. 
The bargeman, and a passenger, 
Each in his turn essay'd an air 
In honour of liis absent fair. 
At lengtli, the passenger, opprest 
With wine, left off, and snor'd the rest. 
The weary bargeman too gave o'er. 
And hearing his companion snore, 
Seiz'd the occasion, fix'd the barge, 
Turn'd out his mule to graze at large. 
And slept, forgetful of his charge. 
And now the sun o'er eastern hill 
Discover'd that our barge stood still ; 
When one, Avhose anger vex'd him sore. 
With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore, 
Plucks up a stake, Avith many a thwack 
Assails the mule and driver's back. 



188 APPENDIX. 



1 



Then slowly moving on with pain, 
At ten Feronia's sti'cam we gain, 
And in her pui'e and glassy wave 
Our hands and faces gladly lave. 
Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height 
We reach, with stony quarries white. 
While here, as was agreed, we wait 
'Till, charg'd with bus'ness of the state, 
Mxcenas and Cocceius come. 
The messengers of peace from Rome. 
My eyes, by wat'ry humours blear 
And sore, I with black balsam smear. 
At length they join us, and with them 
Our worthy friend, Fonteius came, 
A man of such complete desert, 
Antony lov'd him at his heart. 
At Fundi we refus'd to bait. 
And laugh 'd at vain Aufidius' state, 
A prsetor now, a scribe before. 
The purple-border'd robe he wore, 
His slave the smoking censer bore, 
Fir'd at Murzena's we repose, 
At Formia sup at Capito's. 

With smiles the rising morn we greet, 
At Sinnuessa pleas'd to meet 
With Plotius, Varius, and the bard 
Whom Mantua first with wonder heard. 
The world no purer spirits knows. 
For none my heart more warmly glows. 
Oh! what embraces we bestow 'd, 
And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd! 
Sure, while my sense is sound and clea% 
Long as I live, I shall prefer 
A gay, good-natur'd, easy friend, 
To ev'ry blessing Heav'n can send. 
At a small village the next night 
Near the Vulturnus we alight ; 
Where, as employ'd on state affairs, 
We were supply'd by the purvey'rs, 
Frankly at once, and without hire. 
With food for man and horse, and fire. 
Capua next day betimes we reach, 
Wliere Virgil and myself, who eacli 



APPENDIX. 189 

Labour'd with different maladies, 

His such a stomach, mine such eyea, 

As would not bear strong exercise, 

In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; 

Maecenas to the tennis-court. 

Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated, 

Above the Caudian tavern seated. 

His kind and hospitable board 

With choice of wholesome food was stor'd. 

Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays ! 
To nobler themes my fancy raise ! 
Two combatants, who scorn to yield 
The noisy tongue-disputed field, 
Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim 
A poet's tribute to their fame ; 
Cicirrus of true Oscian breed, 
Sarmentus, who was never freed, 
But ran away. We don't defame him. 
His lady lives, and still may claim him. 
Thus dignify'd, in hardy fray 
These champions their keen wit display, 
And first Sarmentus led the way. 
" Thy locks," quoth he, " so rough and coarse, 
" Look like the mane of some wild horse." 
We laugh. Cicirrus undismay'd — 
" Have at you !" — cries, and shakes his head. 
" 'Tis well," Sarmentus says, " you've lost 
'' That horn your forehead once could boast ; 
" Since, maim'd and mangled as you are, 
" You seem to butt." A hideous scar 
Improv'd, 'tis true, with double grace, 
The native horrors of his face. 
Well, after much jocosely said 
Of his grim front, so fi'ry red, 
(For carbuncles had blotch 'd it o'er, 
As usual on Campania's shore) 
" Give us," he cry'd, " since you're so big, 
" A sample of the Cyclops' jig. 
" Your shanks methinks no buskins ask, 
'' Nor does your phiz require a mask." 
To this Cicirrus — " In return, 
" Of you, Sir, now I fain would leani, 



190 APPENDIX. 

" When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave, 

" Your chains you to the Lares gave : 

" For though a scriv'ner's right you claim, 

*' Your lady's title is the same. 

'* But what could make you run away, 

" Since, pygmy as you are, each day 

" A single pound of bread would quite 

" O'erpow'r your puny appetite?" 

Thus jok'd the champions, while we laugh'd. 

And many a cheerful bumper quafF'd. 

To Beneventum next we steer ; 
Where our good host, by over-care 
In roasting thi'ushes lean as mice. 
Had almost fall'n a sacrifice. 
The kitchen soon was all on fire. 
And to the roof the flames aspire. 
There might you see each man and master 
Striving amidst this sad disaster 
To save the supper. Then they came 
With speed enough to quench the flame. 
From hence we first at distance see 
Th' Apulian hills, well knoAvn to me, 
Parch'd by the sultry western blast; 
And which we never should have past, 
Had not Trivicus by the way 
Receiv'd us at the close of day. 
But each was forc'd at ent'ring here 
To pay the tribute of a tear ; 
For more of smoke tlian fire was seen — 
The heartli was pil'd with logs so green. 
From hence in chaises we were carry'd 
Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarry'd 
At a small town, whose name my verse 
(So barb'rous is it) can't rehearse. 
Know it you may, by many a sign, 
Water is dearer far than wine ; 
Their bread is deem'd such dainty fare, 
That ev'ry prudent traveller 
His wallet loads with many a crust, 
For at Crnusium you might just 
As well attempt to gnaw a stone 
As tliink to iret a morsel down. 



APPENDIX. 191 



That too with scanty streams is fed, 

Its founder was brave Diomed. 

Good Varius, (ah, that friends must part J) 

Here left us all with aching heart. 

At Rubi we arriv'd that day, 

Weil jaded by the length of way, 

And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter. 

Next day no weather could be better, 

No roads so bad ; we scarce could crawl 

Along to fishy Barium's wall. 

Th' Egnatians next, who, by the rules 

Of common sense, are knaves or fools. 

Made all our sides with laughter heave, 

Since we with them must needs believe. 

That incense in their temples burns, 

And without fire to ashes turns. 

To circumcision's bigots tell 

Such talcs ! For me, I know full well, 

That in high heav'n, unmov'd by care, 

The gods eternal quiet share: 

Nor can I deem their spleen the cause, 

Why fickle Nature breaks her laws. 

Brundusium last we reach : and there 

Stop short the Muse and traveller. 



THE 

NINTH SATIRE 

OF THE 

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. 



The Description of an Impertinent. 

Adapted to the present Times, 1759. 

SaUNT'RING along the street one day. 

On trifles musing by the way — 

Up steps a free familiar wight, 

(I scarcely knew the man by sight.) 

" Carlos," he cry'd, " your hand, my deari 

*' Gad, I reJQice to meet you here ! 



192 APPENDIX. 

" Pray heav'n I see you well !" — " So, so : 
" E'en well enough, as times now go. 
" The same good wishes. Sir, to you." 
Finding he still pursu'd me close — 
*■ " Sir, you have bus'ness I suppose." 
" My bus'ness, Sir, is quickly done. 
" 'Tis but to make my merit known. 
" Sir, I have read" — " O learned Sir, 
" You and your learning I revere." 
Then, sweating with anxiety, 
And sadly longing to get free, 
Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't, 
Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short, 
Beckon'd my boy, and puU'd him near, 
And whisper'd nothing in his ear. 

Teaz'd with his loose unjointed chat — 
" What street is this ? What house is that ?" — 
O Harlow, how I envy'd thee 
Thy imabash'd effrontery, 
Who dar'st a foe with freedom blame. 
And call a coxcomb by his name ! 
When I return'd him answer none, 
Obligingly the fool ran on : 
" I see you're dismally distrest, 
" Would give the world to be releas'd. 
" But by your leave, Sir, I shall still 
" Stick to your shirts, do what you will. 
" Pray, which way does your journey tend?" 
" Oh 'tis a tedious way, my friend, 
" Across the Thames, the Lord knows where. 
" I would not trouble you so far." 
" Well, I'm at leisure to attend you." 
" Are you?" thought I, " the de'il befriend you." 
No ass, with double panniers rack'd, 
Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd, 
E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull 
As I, nor half so like a fool. 
" Sir, I know little of myself, 
(Proceeds the pert conceited elf) 
" If Gray or Mason you will deem 
" Than me more worthy your esteem. 
" Poems I write by folios, 
" As fast as other men Avrite prose. 



APPENDIX. 193 



" Then I can sing so loud, so clear, 

" That bard cannot with me compare. 

" In dancing too I all surpass, 

" Not Cooke can move with such a grace." 

Here I made shift, with much ado. 

To interpose a word or two. 

" Have you no parents, Sir, no friends, 

" Whose welfare on your own depends?"— 

"Parents, relations, say you? No, 

" They're all di^os'd of long ago — 

" Happy to be no more perplex'd. 

" My fate too threatens, I go next. 

" Dispatch me. Sir, 'tis now too late, 

" Alas ! to struggle with my fate ! 

" Well, I'm convinc'd my time is come— 

" Wlien young, a gypsy told my doom. 

" The beldame shook her palsy'd head, 

" As she perus'd my palm, and said : 

" Of poison, pestilence, or war, 

" Gout, stone, defluction, or catarrh, 

" You have no reason to beware. 

" Beware the coxcomb's idle prate ; 

" Chiefly, my son, beware of that. 

" Be sure, when you behold him, fly 

" Out of all ear-shot, or you die." 

To Rufus' Hall we now drew near, 
Where he was summon'd to appear, 
Refute the charge the plaintiff brought, 
Or suffer judgment by default. 
" For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait 
" One moment ! I'll be with you straight." 
Glad of a plausible pretence — 
" Sir, I must beg you to dispense 
" With my attendance in the court, 
" My legs will surely suffer for't." — 
" Nay, prythee, Carlos, stop awhile I" 
" Faith, Sir, in law I have no skill; 
" Besides, I have no time to spare. 
" I must be going, you know where." 
" Well, I protest, I'm doubtfiil now, 
" Whether to leave my suit or you." 
" Me without scruple • (I reply) 
" Me by all means, Sir,"—-" No, not I. 

VOL. II. c c 



194, APPENDIX. 

^^ Allans^ Monsieur!" 'Twere vain, you kiio>r» 

To strive with a victorious foe ; 

So I reluctantly obey, 

And follow, where he leads the way. 

" You, and Newcastle, are so close, 
" Still hand and glove, Sir, I suppose. — 
" Newcastle (let me tell you. Sir) 
" Has not his equal every where."— 
" Well ; there, indeed, your fortune's made. 
" Faith, Sir, you understand your trade. 
" Would you but give me your good word, 
" Just introduce me to my Lord, 
" I should serve charmingly by way 
" Of second fiddle, as they say : 
" What think you. Sir I 'twelve a good jest, 
" 'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." — 
" Sir, you mistake the matter far, 
" We have no second fiddles there." — 
" Richer than I some folks may be, 
" More learned. But it hurts not me. 
" Friends though he has of diflF'rent kind, 
" Each has his proper place assign'd." 
" Strange matters these alledg'd by you !" — 
" Strange they may be. But they are true," 
" Well, then, I vow 'tis mighty clever ; 
" Now, I long ten times more than ever 
" To be advanc'd extremely near 
" One of his shining character. 
" Have but the will ; there wants no more, 
" 'Tis plain enough you have the pow'r. 
" His easy temper (that's the worst) 
" He knows, and is so shy at first, 
" But such a cavalier as you — 
" Lord, Sir, you'll quickly bring him too ! 
" Well ; if I fail in my design, 
" Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. 
"If by the saucy servile tribe 
" Deny'd, what think you of a bribe ? 
" Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow, 
'* But try my luck again to-morrow. 
" Never attempt to visit him 
" But at the most convenient time ; 



APPENDIX. 195 

" Attend him on each levee-day, 
" And there my humble duty pay. 
*' Labour like this our want supplies, 
" And they must stoop who mean to rise." 

While thus he wittingly harangu'd, 
For which you'll guess I wish him hang'd, 
Campley, a friend of mme, came by, 
Who knew his humour more than I. 
We stop, salute, and — " Why so fast, 
*' Friend Carlos? — Wliither all this haste ?" — 
Fir'd at the thoughts of a reprieve, 
I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve, 
Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout, 
Do ev'ry thing but speak plain out ; 
Wliile he, sad dog, from the beginning 
Determin'd to mistake my meaning. 
Instead of pitying my curse. 
By jeering made it ten times worse. 
" Campley, what secret, pray, was that 
" You wanted to communicate?" 
*' I recollect. But 'tis no matter. 
*' Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. 
" E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell 
*' Another time. Sir, just as well." 

Was ever such a dismal day ! 
Unlucky cur, he steals away. 
And leaves me, half bereft of life, 
At mercy of the butcher's knife: 
When sudden, shouting from afar, 
See his antagonist appear ! 
The bailiff seiz'd him quick as thought. 
" Ho, Mr. Scoundrel ! are you caught ? 
" Sir, you are witness to th' arrest." 
" Aye marry, Sir, I'll do my best." 
The mob huzzas. Away they trudge, 
Culprit and all, before the judge. 
Meanwhile I luckily enough, 
Tlianks to Apollo, got clear off. 



196 APPENDIX. c 

THE SALLAD. 

By VIRGIL. 

This singular poem., nohich the learned and judicious Htyne seems 
inclined to think a translation of Virgil's, from the Greek of 
Parthenius, ivas translated into English, by Cotoper, during 
his depressive malady, June, 1799 ; cwrf to those who are used 
to philosophize on the powers of the human mind under afflic- 
tion, it nvill appear a highly interesting curiosity. 

I find, in the secondvolume of the St<. Jafnes's Magazine, published 
in 1763, by Lloyds, the early friend of Convper, another version 
of this poem in rhyme— 'it has only the initials of the author 
prefixed — R. T: 



1 HE winter-night now well-nigh worn away, 
The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day, 
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm 
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, 
Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provide 
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied. 
By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook. 
And, poking in the dark, explor'd the nook 
Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around, 
And with burnt fingers-ends the treasure found. 

It chanc'd that from a brand beneath his nose, 
Sure pi'oof of latent fire, some smoke arose ; 
When trimming with a pin th' incrusted tow, 
And stooping it toward the coals below. 
He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite 
The ling'ring flame, and gains at length a light. 
With prudent heed he spreads his hand before 
The quiv'ring lamp, and opes his gran'ry door. 
Small was his stock, but taking for the day 
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away. 
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, 
Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand: 
Then baring both his arms — a sleeveless coat 
He gii'ds, the rough exuvix of a goat ; 



APPENDIX. 197 

And with a rubber, for that use design'd, 
Cleansing his mill within, begins to grind ; 
Each hand has its employ; lab'ring amain, 
This turns the wince, while that supplies the grain. 
The stone revolving rapidly, now glows. 
And the bruis'd corn, a mealy current flows; 
While he, to make his heavy labour light. 
Tasks oft his left-hand to relieve his right ; 
And chaunts with rudest accent, to beguile 
His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. 
And now, dame Cybale, come forth ! he cries ; 
But Cybale, still slumb'ring, nought replies. 

From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid, 
Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd. 
With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin. 
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin, 
Legs slender, broad and most mishapen feet, 
Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. 
Such, summon'd oft, she came ; at his command 
Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd, 
And made, in haste, her simm'ring skillet steam, 
Replenish 'd newly from the neighbouring stream* 

The labours of the mill perform 'd, a sieve 
The mingled flour and bran must next receive. 
Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refin'd 
And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. 
This done, at once, his ftiture plain repast, 
Unleaven'd, on a shaven board he cast, , 

With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all. 
Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball, 
And spreading it again with both hands wide. 
With sprinkled salt the stififen'd mass supplied ; 
At length the stubborn substance, duly wrouglit, 
Takes from his palms, impress'd, the shape it ought, 
Becomes an orb — and, quarter'd into shares, 
The faithful mark of just division bears. 
l^.ast, on his hearth it finds convenient space, 
i'or Cybale before had swept the place. 
And there, with tiles and embers overspread, 
Wlie leaves it, reeking in its sultry bed. 



198 APPENDIX. 

Nor Sitnulus, while Vulcan thus alone 
His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own ; 
But sedulous not merely to subdue 
His htlnger, but to please his palate too, 
Prepares more sav'ry food. His chinuiey-side 
Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried, 
And hook'd behind him ; but sufficient store 
Of bundled annis, and a cheese it bore — 
A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung 
With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung; 
The prudent hero, therefore, with address 
And quick dispatch, now seeks another mess. 

Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground, 
With reeds and osiers sparely girt around ; 
Small was the spot, but lib'ral to produce, 
Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use ; 
And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow thencc, 
Although its tillage was his sole expense. 
For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceas'd, 
Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, 
His debt of culture here he duly paid. 
And only left the plough to wield the spade. 
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs. 
To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds; 
And could with ease compel the wanton rill 
To turn, and wind, obedient to his will. 
There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching beet, 
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet, * 

• The skirret, and the leak's aspiring kind, 
The noxious poppy — quencher of the mind I 
Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board, 
The lettuce, and the long huge bellied gourd ; 
But these (for none his appetite controul'd 
With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold; 
With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart, 'j 

He bore them ever to the public mart ; i 

Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load ? 

Of cash well-earn'd, he took his homeward road, 
Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, 
His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home. 
There, at no cost, on onions rank and red, ^ 

Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed: '^ 



APPENDIX. 199 

On scallions slic'd, or, with a sensual gust, 
On rockets — foul provocatives of lust ! 
Nor even shunn'd, with smarting gums, to press 
Nasturtium — pungent, face-distorting mess I 

Some such regale now also in his thought, 
With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought : 
There delving with his hands, he first dlsplac'd 
Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast ; 
The tender tops of parsley next he culls, 
Then the old rue-bush shudders as lie pulls. 
And coriander last to these succeeds, 
That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds, 

Plac'd near his sprightly fire, he now demands 
The mortar at his sable servant's hands ; 
When, stripping all his garlick first, he tore 
Th' exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, 
Then cast away, with like contempt, the skin. 
Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. 
These search 'd, and perfect found, he one by one 
Rinc'd, and dispos'd within the hollow stone. 
Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese. 
With his injected herljs he cover'd these. 
And tucking with his left his tunic tight, 
And seizing fast the pestle with his right. 
The garlick bruising first he soon express'd, 
And mix'd the various juices of the rest. 
He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below. 
Lost in each other, their own pow'rs forego, 
And with the cheese in compound, to the sight ^ 

Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white. 
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent, 
He curs'd full oft his dinner for its scent, 
Or with wry faces, wiping, as he spoke. 
The trickling tears, cried, " Vengeance on tlie smoke 1" 
The work proceeds : not roughly turns he now 
The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow. 
With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills, 
Some drops of olive -oil he next instills ; 
Then vinegar, with caution scaixely less ; 
And gath'ring to a ball the medley-mess, 
Last, with two fingers frugally applied. 
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side. 



200 APPENDIX. 

And thus complete in figure and in kind, 
Obtains at length the sallad he design'd. 

And now black Cybale before him stands, 
The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands ; 
He glad receives it, chasing far away 
All fears of famine, for the passing day : 
His legs enclos'd in buskins, and his head 
In its tough casque of leather, forth he led 
And yok'd his steers, a dull obedient pair, 
Then drove a-field, and plung'd the pointed share. 






APPENDIX. 

(No. 4.) 



Translations frmn various Latin Poems of Vincent Bourne, 
and a few Epigrams of Oxven. 



The Thracian. 

1 HRACIAN parents, at his birth, 
Mourn their babe with many a tear, 

But with undissembled mirth, 
Place him breathless on his bier. 

Greece and Rome, with equal scorn, 
" Oh the savages I" exclaim, 

VVliether they rejoice or mourn, 
Well-entitled to the name ! 

But the cause of this concern 

And this pleasure, would they trace, 

Even they might somewhat learn 
From the savages of Thrace. 



THRAX. 

Threicium infantem, cum hicem intravit et auras, 

Fletibus excepit mxstus uterque parens. 
Threicium infantem, cum luce exivit et auris 

Extulit ad funus l<etus uterque parens. 
Interea tu Roma ; et tu tibi Grrecia plaudens, 

Dicitis, hjec vera est Thraica barbarics. 
Laetitix causam, causamque exqiiirite luctus ; 

Vosque est quod doceat Thraica harbaries. 

VOL, IT. D d 



302 APPENDIX. 



Reciiirocal Kindness, the Jirimary Lata of Nature* 

Androcles, from his injur'd Lord, in dread 
Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled ; 
Tir'd with his toilsome flight, and parch 'd with heat, 
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat. 
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame, 
When, hugest of its kind, a lion came : 
He roar'd approaching ; but the savage din 
To plaintive murmurs chang'd, arriv'd within, 
And with expressive looks his lifted paw 
Presenting, aid implor'd from whom he saw. 
The fugitive, through terror at a stand, 
Dar'd not awhile afford his trembling hand, 
But bolder grown at length, inherent found 
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. 
The cure was wrought; he wip'd the sanious flood. 
And firm and free from pain the lion stood. 
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day 
Regales his inmate with the parted prey. 
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepar'd, 
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shar'd. 
But thus to live — still lost, sequester'd still — 
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge an heavier ill. 



Mutua Benevolentia primaria Lex Naturie est. 

Per Libyse Androcles siccas errabat arenas, 

Qui vagus iratum fugerat exul heruni. 
Lassato tandem fractoque labore viarum. 

Ad scopuli patuJt cceca caverna latuS. , 
Hanc subit ; et placid?e dederat vix membra sopori 

Cum subito immaais rugat ad antra leo: 
lUe pedem attollens laesum, et miserabile murmur 

Edens, qua poterat voce, precatur opem. 
Perculsus novitate rei, incertusque timore, 

Vix tandem tremulas admovet erro manus : 
Et spinam explorans (nam fixa in vulnere spina 

Hserebat) cauto moUiter ungue trahit : 
Continue dolor omnis abit, teter fiuit humor; 

Et coit, absterso sanguine, rupta cutis: 
Nunc iterum sylvas dumosque peragrat ; et afiert 

Providus assiduas hospes ad antra dapes. 



I 



APPENDIX. 20S 

Home, native home ! — Oh might he but repair ! — • 

He must, he will, though death attends him there. 

He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sands 

Of the full theatre unpitied stands ! 

When, lo • the self-same lion from his cage 

Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage. 

He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey 

The man, his healer, pauses on his way, 

And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet 

And kind composure, crouches at his feet. 

Mute with astonishment th' assembly gaze ; 
But why, ye Romans ? Whence your mute amaze ? 
All this is nat'ral — Nature bade him rend 
An enemy ; she bids him spare a friend. 

^ Manual more ancient than the Art of Printings and not to be 
found in any Catalogue* 

There is a book, which we may call 

(Its excellence is such) 
Alone a library, though small ; 

The ladies thumb it much. 

Juxta epulis accumbit homo conviva leonis. 

Nee crudes dubitat participare cibos. 
Quis tamen ista ferat desertae tsedia v'lfx ? 

Vix furor ultoris tristior esset heri 
w Devotum certis caput objectare periclis 

Et patrios statuit rursus adire lares. 
Traditur hie, feri facturus speotacula plebi, 

Accipit et miserum tristis arena reum. 
Irruit e caveis fors idem impastus et acer, 

Et medicum attonito suspicit ore leo. 
Suspicit, et veterem agnoscens vetus hospes armcuBa 

Decumbit notes blandulus ante pedes. 
Quid vero perculsi animis, stupuere quirites ? 

Ecquid prodigii, territa Roma, vides ? 
Unius naturae opus est ; ea sola furorem 

Sumere quae jussit, penere sola jubet. 

Manuale Typographia onini antiquius nuUi uspiam Libronun inserUnn 
Catalogo. 

Exiguus liber est, miiliebri crelier in usu, 
Per se qui dici bibliotheca potest. 



APPENDIX. 

Words none, things num'rous it contains ; 

And, things with words compar'd. 
Who needs be told, that has his brains, 

Which merits most regard ? 

Oftimes its leaves of scarlet hue 

A golden edging boast ; 
And open'd, it displays to view 

Twelve pages at the most* 

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind 

Adorns its outer part ; 
But all within 'tis richly lin'd, 

A magazine of art. 

The whitest hands that secret hoard 

Oft visit ; and the fair 
Preserve it in their bosoms stor'd. 

As with a miser's care. 

Thence implements of ev'ry size. 

And krm'd for various use, 
(They need but to consult their eyes) 

They readily produce. 

The largest and the longest kind 

Possess the foi'eniost page, 
A sort most needed by the blind. 

Or nearly such from age. 



Copia wrborum non est, sed copia rerum ; 

Copia (quod nemo deneget) utilior. 
Rubiis consuitur pannis ; fors texitur auro ; 

Bis sexta ad summum pagina claiidit opus. 
Nil habet a tergo titulive aut nominis ; intus 

Thesauros artis servat, et intus opes : 
Intus opes, quae nympha sinu pulcherrima gestet, 

Qiias nive candidior tractet ametque manus. 
Quando instrumentum prjesens sibi postulat usils, 

Majusve, auc operis pro ratione, minus. 
Et genere et modulo diversa habet arma, gradatim 

Digesta, ad numeros atlenuata suos. 



APPENDIX. 205 



The full-charg'd leaf, which next ensue*, 

Presents in bright array 
The smaller sort, -which matrons use, 

Not quite so blind as they. 

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply 

Wliat their occasions ask, 
\^'Tio with a more discerning eye 

Perform a nicer task. 

But still with regular decrease, 

From size to size they fall, 
In ev'ry leaf grow less and less J 

The last are least of all. 

Oh ! what a fund of genius, pent 

In narrow space, is here ? 
This volume's method and intent, 

How luminous and clear ! 

It leaves no reader at a loss 

Or pos'd, whoever reads ; 
No commentator's tedious gloss, 

Nor even index needs. 

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er I 

No book is treasur'd there, 
Nor yet in Granta's num'rous store, 

That may with this compare. 



Primum enchiridii folium majuscula profert, 

Qiialia quae bloeso est lumine poscat anus 
Quod sequitur folium, matronis arma ministrat, 

Dicere quae magnis proximiora licet. 
Tertium, item quartum, quintumque minuscula supplet, 

Sed non ejusdem singula quoeque loci. 
Disposita ordinibus certis, discrimina servant; 

Quae sibi conveniant, seligat unde nurus. 
Ultima qux restant qux multa minutula nympha 

Dicit, sunt sexti divitae folii 
Qiiantillo in spatio doctrlna O ! quanta latescit ! 

Qiiam tamen obscuram vix brevitate voces. 
Non est interpres, non est commentaiius ulliu, 

Aut index ; tarn sunt omnia pcrspicua. 



206 APPENDIX. 

No ! — Rival none in either host 
Of this was ever seen, 

Or that contents could justly boast 
So brilliant and so keen. 



An j^nigma, 

A needle small, as small can be, 
In bulk and use surpasses me, 

Nor is my purchase dear ; 
For little, and almost for nought, 
As many of my kind are bought 

As days are in the year. 

Yet though but little use we boast, 
And are procured at little cost, 

The labour is not light, 
Nor few artificers it asks. 
All skilful in their sev'ral tasks, 

To fashion us aright. 

One fuses metal o'er the fife, 
A second draws it into wire, 

The shears another plies. 
Who clips in lengths the brazen thread 
For him, who, chafing every shred. 

Gives all an equal size. 

jEtatem ad quamvis, ad captum ita fingitur omnem, 

Ut nihil auxilii postiilet inde liber. 
Millia librorum numerat perplura; nee uUum 

Bcdlsei huic jactat bibliotheca parem. 
Millia Csesareo numerat quoque munere Granta, 

Haec tamen est inter millia tale nihil. 
Non est, non istis author de miUibus unus, 

Cui tanta ingenii vis, vel acumen inest. 

ENIGMA. 

Parvula res, et aou minor est, et ineptior usu : 
Qiiotque dies annus, tot tibi drachma dabit. 

Sed licet exigui pretii miniraique valoris, 
Ecce, quot artificum postulat ilia manus! 

Unius in primis cura est conflare metallum ; 
In longa alterius ducere fila laboi-. 



i 



APPENDIX. 20? 

A fifth prepares, exact and round, 

The knob, with which it must be crown'd ; 

His follow'r makes it fast ; 
And with his mallet and his file 
To shape the point, employs a while 

The seventh, and the last. 

Now, therefore, CEdipus I declare 
What creature, wonderful, and rare, 

A process, that obtains 
Its purpose with so much ado. 
At last produces ! — Tell me true. 

And take me for your pains ! 

Sparrows self-domesticated in Trinity College, Cambridge. 

None ever shar'd the social feast, 
Or as an inmate, or a guest, 
Beneath the celebrated dome 
Where once Sir Isaac had his home, 
Who saw not, (and with some dehght 
Perhaps he view'd tlie novel sight) 
How num'rous, at the tables there, 
The sparrows beg their daily fare. 
For there, in every nook and cell, 
Wliere such a family maj' dwell, 

Tertius in partes resecat, quartusque resectum 

Perpolit ad modulos attenuatque datos. 
Est quinti tornare caput, quod sextus adaptet ; 

Septimus in punctum cudit et exacuit. 
His tandem auxiliis ita res procedit, ut omnes 

Ad numeros ingens perficiatur opus. 
Quae tanti ingenii quae tanti est summa laboris ? 

Si mihi respondes (Edipe, tola tua est. 

Passeres indigence Col. Trin. Cant. Commensahs. 

Incola qui norit sedes, aut viserit hospes, 

Newtoni egregii quas celebravit hones; 
Viditque et meminit, loetus fortasse videndo, 

Quam multa ad mensas advolitarit avis. 
Ille nee ignorat, nidos ut, verc ineunte, 

Tecta per et forulos et tabulata struat. 



S08 APPENDIX. 

Sure as the vernal season comes 
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs, 
Which kindly given, may serve with food 
Convenient their unfeather'd brood ; 
And oft as with its summons clear 
The warning bell salutes their ear, 
Sagacious list'ners to the sound, 
They flock from all the fields around, 
To reach the hospitable hall, 
None more attentive to the call. 
Arriv'd, the pensionary band, 
Hopping and chirping, close at hand, 
Solicit what they soon receive. 
The sprinkled, plenteous donative. 
Thus is a multitude, though large, 
Supported at a trivial charge ; 
A single doit would overpay 
Th' expenditure of every day, 
And who can grudge so small a grace 
To suppliants, natives of the place ? 

Familiarity Dangerous, 

As in her ancient mistress' lap, 

The youthful tabby lay. 
They gave each other many a tap, 

Alike dispos'd to play. 

Ut coram educat teneros ad pabula foetus, 

Et'pascat micis, quas det arnica manus. 
Convivas quoties campans: ad prandia pulsus 

Convocat, baud epulis certior hospes adest. 
Continuo jucunda simul vox fertur ad aures, 

Vicinos passer quisque relinquit agros 
Hospitium ad notum properatur ; et ordine stantes 

Expectant panis fragmina quisque sua. 
Hos tamen, hos omnes, vix uuo largior asse 

Sumptus per totam pascit alitque diem. 
Hunc unum, hunc modicum (nee quisquam inviderit assem) 

Indigence hospitii jure, merentur aves. 

Ktdle te facias niinis solalem. 

Palpat heram felis, gremio recubans in anili; 
Qiiam semel atque iteruni Lydia palpat hera. 



APPENDIX. 

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, 

And with protruded claws 
Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm, 

Mere wantonness the cause. 

At once, resentful of the deed, 
She shakes her to the ground 

With many a threat, that she shall bleed 
With still a deeper wound. 

But Lydia, bid thy fuiy rest 1 

It was a venial stroke. 
For she that will with kittens jest 

Should bear a kitten's joke. 



Invitation to the Redbreast, 
Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains — 

And seldom another it can — 
To seek a retreat, while he reigns. 

In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man, 
Who never can'st seem to intrude. 

Though in all places equally free, 
Come, oft as the season is rude ! 

Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 

At sight of the first feeble ray 
That pierces the clouds of the east. 

To inveigle thee every day 
My window shall show thee a feast. 



Ludum lis sequitur ; nam totos exerit ungues, 

Et longo lacerat vuhiere felis anum. 
Continue exardens gremio muliercula felem 

Nee gravibus multis excutit absque minis. 
Quod tamen baud sequum est — si vult cum fele jocari, 

Felinum debet Lydia ferre jocum. 

Ad RubeaUain Invitatio. 

Hospes avis, conviva domo gratissima cuivis, 

Quam bruma humanam qu?erere cogit opem ; 
Hue O ! hyberni fugias ut frigora coeli, 
Confuge, et incohimis sub lare vive meo I 
VOL. ir. Ke 



210 APPENDIX. 

For, taught by experience, I. know 
Thee mindful of benefit long; 

And that, thankful for all I bestow, 
Thou Avilt pay me with many a song. 

Then, soon as the swell of the buds 

Bespeaks the renewal of spring, 
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods, 

Or where it shall please thee to sing : 
And should 'st thou, compell'd by a frost, 

Come again to my window or door, 
Doubt not an affectionate host ! 

Only pay, as thou payd'st me before. 

Thus music must needs be confest 

To flow from a fountain above. 
Else how should it work in the breast 

Unchangeable friendship and love? 
And who on the globe can be found, 

Save your generations and ours, 
That can be delighted by sound, 

Or boasts any musical pow'rs? 



Unde tuam esuriem releves, allmenta fenestrse 

Apponam, quoties itque reditque dies. 
Usu etenim edidici, quod grato alimenta rependes 

Cantu, quae dederit cunque benigna manus. 
Vere novo tepidae spirant cum molliter aurae, 

Et novus in quavis arbore vernat hoiios, 
Pro libitu ad lucos redeas, sylvasque revisas, 

Laeta quibus resonat musica, parque tuae. 
Sin iterum, sin forte iterum, inclementia brum^ 

Ad mea dilectam tecta reducet avem 
Esto, redux, grato memor esto rependere cantu 

Pabula, quse dederit cunque benigna manus. 
Vis hinc harmonise, numerorum hinc sacra potestas 

Conspicitur, nusquain conspicienda magis, 
Vincula quod stabilis firmissima nectit amoris, 

Vincula vix longa dissocianda die. 
Captat, et incantat blando oblectamine rausa 

Humanum pariter pennigerumque genus ; 
Nos homines et aves, quotcunque animantia vivunt, 

Nos soli harmoniae gens studiosa sumus. 



APPENDIX. 811 

Strada's JVightingale* 
The shepherd touch'd his reed ; sweet Philomel 

Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain, 
And treasuring, as on her ear they fell, 

The numbers, echo'd note for note again. 

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before 

A rival of his skill, indignant heard, 
And soon (for various was his tuneful store) 

In loftier tones defy'd the simple bird. 

She dar'd the task, and rising as he rose, 
With all the force that passion gives, inspir'd, 

Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close 
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expir'd. 

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife t 

By the poor songstress playfully begun ; 
And O sad victory ! which cost thy life — 

And he may wish that he had never won ! 



Ode on the Death of a Lady who lived one hundred Yearsy and 
died on her Birth-day in 1728. 
Ancient dame, how wide and vast, 

To a race like ours appears, 
Rounded to an orb at last, 
All thy multitude of years ! 

StracLe Philomela. 
Pastoiem audivit calamis Philomela camentem, 

Et voluit tenues ipsa referre modos ; 
Ipsa retentavit numeros, didicitque retentans 

Argutum fida reddere voce melos. 
Pastor inassuetus rivalem ferre, misellam 

Grandius ad carmen provocat, urget avem. 
Tuque etiam in modulos surgis Philomela; sed impan 

Virihus heu impar, examinisque cadis. 
Durum certamem ! tristis victoria! cantum 

Maluerit pastor non superasse tuum. 

ANUS S/ECULARIS 
^/ic justaon centum annorum cttatem, ipso die natali, exple^'it, et clautit 
anno 1728. 
Singularis prodigium O senects, 
Et novum exemplum diuturnitatis, 
Cujus annorum series in amplum 

desinit orbem ! 



ei3 APPENDIX. 

We, the herd of human kind, 
Frailer and of feebler pow'rs ; 

We, to narroAv bounds confin'd, 
Soon exhaust the sum of ours» 

Death's delicious banquet — we 
Perish even from the womb ; 

Swifter than a shadow flee, 
Nourish'd, but to feed the tomb. 

Seeds of merciless disease 
Lurk in all that we enjoy ; 

Some that waste us by degrees, 
Some that suddenly destroy. 

And if life o'erleap the bourn 
Common to the sons of men, 

What remains, but that we mourn. 
Dream, and doat, and drivel then ? 

Fast as moons can wax and wain 
Sorrow comes ; and while we groan, 

Pant with anguish, and complain, 
Half our years are fled and gone. 

Vulgus infelix hominum, dies en ! 
Compute quam dispare computamus ? 
Qiiam tua a summa procul est temota 



summula nostra. 



Pabulum nos luxuriesque lethi, 
Nos, simul nati, incipimus perire, 
Nos statim a cunis cita destinamur 

Occulit mors insidias, ubi vix, 
Vix opinari est, rapidaeve febris 
Vim repentinam, aut male pertinacis 



prseda sepulchro. 



semina morbi. 



Sin brevem possit superare vita 
Terminum, quicquid superest, vacivum, 
Illud ignavis superest et imbe- 



Detrahunt multum, minuuntque sorti 
Morbidi questus gemitusque anheli ; 
Ad parem crescunt numerum diesque 



cillibus annis. 



atque dolores. 



APPENDIX. 213 



If a few, (to few 'tis giv'n) 
Ling'ring on this earthly stage, 

Creep, and halt with steps unev'n, 
To the period of an age : — 

Wherefore live they but to see 
Cunning, arrogance, and force? 

Sights, lamented much by thee. 
Holding their accustom 'd course ! 

Off was seen, in ages past. 
All that we with wonder view; 

Often shall be to the last ; 
Earth produces nothing new. 

Thee we gratulate ; content, 
Should propitious Heav'n design 

Life for us, as calmly spent. 
Though but half the length of thine. 



The Cause won. 

Two neighbours furiously dispute ; 
A field — the subject of the suit. 



Si quis hsec vitet (quotus ille quisque est !) 
Et gradu pergendo laborioso 
Ad tuum, fortasse tuum, moretur 

reptilis oevum : 
At videt, mxstum tibi sjepe visum, in- 
Jurias, vim, furta, dolos, et inso- 
Lentiam, quo semper eunt, eodem 



Nil inest rebus novitatis ; et quod 
Uspiam est nugarum et ineptiarum, 
Unius volvi videt, et revolvi 

Integram xtatam tibi gratulamur; 
Et dari nobis satis sestimamus. 
Si tuam, saltern vacuam querelis 



Victoria Forensis. 
Caio cum Titio lis et vexatio longa 
Sunt de vicini projjrietate soli. 



circulus Kvi. 



dimidiemus. 



214 APPENDIX. 

Trivial the spot, yet such the rage 

With which the combatants engage, 

'Twere hard to tell who covets most 

The prize — at whatsoever cost. 

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice* 

No single word but has its price. 

No term but yields some fair pretence, 

For novel and increas'd expense. 

Defendant thus becomes a name, 
\\Tiich he that bore it may disclaim; 
Since both, in one description blended, 
Are plaintiiFs — when the suit is ended. 



The Silk- Worm. 

The beams of April, ere it goes, 
A worm, scarce visible, disclose ; 
All winter long content to dwell 
The tenant of his native sheU. 
The same prolific season gives 
The sustenance by which he lives, 
The mulb'ry-leaf, a simple store, 
That serves him — ^till he needs no more! 
For, his dimensions once complete, 
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat ; 



Protinus ingentes animos in jurgia sumunt 

Utraque vincendi pars studiosa nimis. 
Lis tumet in schedulas, et jam verbosior, et jam; 

Nee verbum quodvis asse minoris emunt. 
Praeterunt menses, et terminus alter et alter ; 

Quisque novos sumptas alter et alter, habent. 
lUe qaerens, hie respondens pendente vocatur 

Lite; sed ad finem litis, uterque querens. 

BOMBYX. 

Fine sub Aprilis Bombjx excluditur ovo, 
ReptUis exiguo corpore vermiculus. 

Frondibus hie mori, volvox dum fiat adultus, 
Gnaviter incumbens, dum satietur, edit. 

Crescendo ad justum cum jam maturuit jcvum, 
Incipit artifici stamine textor opus : 



APPENDIX. 215 



Though, till his growing time be past, 

Scarce ever is he seen to fast. 

That hour arriv'd, his work begins; 

He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins, 

Till circle upon circle wound 

Careless around him and around, 

Conceals him with a veil, though slight, 

Impervious to the keenest sight. 

Thus self-enclos'd, as in a cask, 

At length he finishes his task; 

And, though a worm, when he was lost, 

Or caterpillar at the most. 

When next we see him, wings he wears, 

And in papilio-pomp appears ; 

Becomes oviparous ; supplies 

With future worms and future flies 

The next ensuing year ; — and dies J 

The Innocent Thief. 

Not a flow'r can be found in the fields, 
Or the spot that we till for our pleasure, 

From the largest to least, but it yields 
The bee, never- weary 'd, a treasure. 

Scarce any she quits unexplor'd, 

With a diligence truly exact ; 
Yet, steal what she may for her hoard, 

Leaves evidence — none of the fact. 



Filaque condensans filis, orbem implicat orbi 

Et sensim in gyris conditus ipse latet. 
Inque cadi teretem formam se colligit, unde 

Egrediens pennas papilionis habet. 
Fitque parens tandem, faetumque reponit in ovis 

Hoc demum extremo munere functus obit. 
Quotquot in hac nostra spirant animalia terra, 

Nulli est vel brevior vita, vel utilior. 

Innocena Prxdatrix. 
Sedula per campos nullo defessa labore. 

In cella ut stipet mella vagatur apis: 
Purpureum vix florem opifex practcrvolat unum, 

Innumeras inter quas alit hortus opes ; 



216 APPENDIX. 

Her lucrative task she pursues, 
And pilfers with so much address, 

That none of their odour they lose, 
Nor charm by their beauty the less. 

Not thus inoiFensively preys 
The canker-worm ; in-dwelling foe ! 

His voracity not thus allays 

The sparrow, the finch, or the crow. 

The worm, more expensively fed, 
The pride of the garden devours ; 

And birds pick the seed from the bed, 
Still less to be spar'd than the flow'rs. 

But she, with such delicate skill. 
Her pillage so fits for our use. 

That the chymist in vain with his still 
Would labour the like to produce. 

Then grudge not her temperate meals. 
Nor a benefit blame as a theft ; 

Since, stole she not all that she steals, 
Neither honey, nor wax would be left. 



Herbula gramineis vLx una innascitur agris, 

Thesauri unde aliquid non studiosa legit. 
A flora ad florem transit, moUique volando 

Delibat tactu suave quod intus habent. 
Omnia delibat, parce sed et omnia, funi 

Ut ne vel minimum videris indicium. 
Omnia degustat tarn parce, ut gratia nulla 

Floribus, ut nullus diminuatur odor. 
Non ita prxdantur modice bruchique et erucse ; 

Non ista hortorum maxima pestis aves : 
Non ita raptores corvi, quorum improba rostra 

Despoliant agros, effodiuntque sata. 
Succos immiscens succis, ita suaviter omnes 

Temperat, ut dederit chymia nulla pares. 
V^ix furtum est illud, dicive injuria debet. 

Quod cera, et multo melle rependit apis. 



APPENDIX. 2ir 

Deimer's Old- JVo!nan, 

Tn this mimic form of a matron in years, 

How plainly the pencil of Denner appears ! 

The matron herself, in "whose old age we see 

Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she I 

No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low ! 

No wrinkle, or deep-fiirrow'd fro^vn on the brow ! 

Her forehead, indeed, is here circled around 

With locks like the ribbon with which the)" are baund j 

Wliile glossy, and smooth, and as soft as the skin 

Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin : 

But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, 

Or that indicates life in its winter — is here I 

Yet all is express'd, w-ith fidelity due, 

Nor a pimple, or freckle, conceal 'd from the view» 

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste 
For the labours of art, to this spectacle haste : 
The youths all agree, that, could old age inspire 
The passion of love, her's would kindle the fire : 
And the matrons, with pleasure, confess that they see 
Ridiculous nothing, or hideous in thee. 



Denner i Anus* 

Dcctum anus artificem, juste celebrata fatetur, 

Denneri pinxit quani studiosa manus. 
Nee stupor est oculis, fronti nee ruga severa, 

Flaccida nee suleis pendet utrinque gena. 
Nil habet illepidum, morosum, aut triste tabella; 

Argentum capitis prseter, anile nihil. 
Apparent nivxi vitta; sub rnargine eani, 

Fila colorati qualia Seres habent. 
Lanugo mentuni, sed quK tenuissinia, vestit ; 

Mollisque, et qua'.is Persica mala tcgit- 
Nulla vel e minimis fugiunt spii'acula visum ; 

At neque lineolis de cutis ulla latet. 
Speetatum veniunt, novitas quos allieit usquam, 

Qiiosque vel ingenii i'ama, vcl artis amor. 
Adveniunt juvenes; et anus si possit amari, 

Dennere, agnoscunt hoc meruisse tuam. 

* Diu publico fuit spcctaculo, c'j^regu hxc tabula in area Palatlna exterioii, juxta hatm 
Wes t m onasteriense. 

VOL. II,. Ff 



J 18 APPENDIX. 

The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline. 
Oh wonderful woman ! as placid as thine. 

Strange magic of art ! which the youth can engage 
To peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age ; 
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, 
That she, when as old, shall be equally fair ! 
How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, 
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd ! 

The Tears of a Painter, 
Apelles, hearing that his boy 
Had just expir'd — ^his only joy! 
Although the sight with anguish tore him, 
Bade place his dear remains before him. 
He seiz 'd his brush, his colours spread ; 
And — " Oh! my child, accept" — he said, 
" ('Tis all that I can now bestow,) 
" This tribute of a father's woe !" 
Then, faithful to the two-fold part. 
Both of his feelings and his art, 
He clos'd his eyes, with tender care, 
And form'd at once a fellow pair. 
His brow, with amber locks beset, 
And lips he drew, not livid yet ; 
And shaded all that he had done, 
To a just image of his son. 

Adveniimt hilares nymphse ; similemque senectam 

Tarn pulchram et placidam dent sibi fata, rogant 
Matronse adveniunt, vetulseque fatentur in ore 

Quod nihil horrendum, ridiculumve vident. 
Quantus honos arti, per quam placet ipsa senectus; 

Quje facit, ut nymphis invideatur anus! 
Pictori cedit qu?e gloria, cum nee Apelli 

Majorem, famam det Cytherea suo ! 

Lacryvix Plctoris. 
Infantem audivit puerum, sua gandia, Apelles 

Intempestivo fato obiisse diem. 
Hie, licet tristi perculsus imagine mortis, 

Proferri in medium corpus inane jubet. 
Et calamum, et succos poscens, hos accipe luctuij 

Msrorem hunc, dixit, jiate, Parentis babe ! 



i 



APPENDIX. 219 



Thus far is well. But view again 
The cause of thy paternal pain ! 
Thy melancholy task fulfil I 
It needs the last, last touches still. 
Again his pencil's pow'r he tries, 
For on his lips a smile he spies ; 
And stiU his cheek unfaded shows 
The deepest damask of the rose. 
Then, heedful to the finish'd whole, 
With fondest eagerness he stole, 
'Till scarce himself distinctly knew 
The cherub copy'd from the true. 

Now, painter, cease ! thy task is done ; 

Long lives this image of thy son : 
Nor short-liv'd shall the glory prove, 
Or of thy labour, or thy love. 



The Maze, 

From right to left, and to and fro, 
Caught in a labyrinth, you go, 
And turn, and turn, and turn again, 
To solve the myst'ry, but in vain. 

Dixit ; et, ut claiisit, clauses depinxlt ocellos ; 

Officio parlter fidus utrique pater : 
Frontemque et crines, nee adhiic pallentia formans 

Oscula, adumbravit lungubre pictor opus. 
Perge parens, maerendo tuos expendere luctus ; 

Nondum opus absolvit triste suprema manus. 
Vidit adhuc molles genitor super oscula risus; 

Vidit adhuc veneres irrubuisse genis. 
Et teneras raptim veneres, blandosque lepores 

Et tacitos risus transtulit in tabulam. 
Pingendo desiste tuuin signare dolorem ; 

Filioli longum vivet imago tui : 
Vivet et n:terna vives tu laude ; nee arte 

Vincendus pictor nee pietate pater. 

Spe Finis. 
Ad dextram, ad loevam, porro, retro, itque rcditquf , 

Deprensum in laqueo quern labyriiithus habet. 
Et legit et relegit gressus, sese explicet unde, 

PerpIexiMii quocrens unde revolvat iter. 



220 APPENDIX. 

Stand still, and breathe, and take from me 
A clue that soon shall set you free I 
Not Ariadne, if you met her, 
Herself could serve you with a better; 
You enter'd easily — find where — . 
And make with ease your exit there ! 

J^o Sorrow jieculiar to the Sufferer* 
The lover, in melodious verses. 
His singular distress rehearses, 
Still closing with the rueful cry, 
" Was ever such a wretch as I ?" 
Yes ! thousands have endur'd before 
All thy distress ; some haply more. 
Unnumber'd Coiydons complain. 
And Strephons, of the like disdain : 
And if thy Chloe be of steel. 
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel ; 
Not her alone that censure fits, 
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits. 

The SiraiU 
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, 
The Snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 
As if he grew there, house and all 

together. 

Sta modo, respira pauhim, simul accipe filum ; 

Certius et melius non Ariadne dabit, 
Sic te, sic solum, expedies errore ; viarum 

Principium invenias, id tibi finis erit. 

Nemo miser nisi comfiarafus. 
Quis fuit infelix adeo ! quls perditus aeque ! 

Conqueritur msesto carmine tristis amans. 
Non novus hie questus, rarove auditus ; amantes 

Deserti et spreti mille queruntur idem. 
Fatum decantas quod tu miserabile, multus 

Deplorat multo cum Corydone, Strephon. 
Si tua cum reliquis confertur arnica puellis, 

Non ea vel sola est ferrea, tuve miser. 

LIMAX. 
Frondibus et pomis, herbisque tenaciter hoeret 
•Liraax, et secum portat ubiqiie domum. 



H 



APPENDIX. 221 



Within that house secure he hides, 
Wlien danger imminent betides, - 
Of storm, or other harm besides 



Give but his horns the slightest touch, 
His self-collecting power is such, 
He shrinks into his house, with much 



of weather. 



displeasure ! 



Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone. 
Except himself has chattels none, 
Well satisfied to be his own 



Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, 
Nor partner of his banquet needs. 
And if he meets one, only feeds 



whole ti'easure. 



the faster. 



Wlio seeks him must be worse than blind, 
(He and his house are so combin'd) 
If finding it, he fails to find 

its master. 



Tutus in hue sese cccultat, si quando periclum 

Imminent aut subitoe decldit imber aquce 
Cornua vel leviter tangas, se protinus in se 

Colligit, in proprios contrahiturque lares. 
Secum habitat quacunque habitat ; sibi tota supellex ; 

Solze, quas adamat, quasque requirit opes. 
Secum potat, edit, dormit ; sibi in ocdibus isdem 

Conviva at comes est, hospes et hospiiium. 
Limacem, qiiacumque siet, quacumque moretur, 

(Si quis eum quoerat) dixeris esse domi. 



222 APPiENDIX. 

EPIGRAMS " 

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. 



On one Ignorant and Arrogant, 

Thou may'st of double ign'rance boast, 
Who know'st not that thou nothing know'st. 

In ignorantem arrogantem 
Linum. 

Cafitivum, Line^ te tenet ignorantia dufilex^ 
Sets nihil, et nescis te quoque scire nihil. 



Prudent Simfilicity. 

That thou may'st injure no man, dove-like be, 
And serpent-like, that none may injure thee ! 

Prudens Sim/ilicitas, 

Ut nulli nocuisse velis, imitai'e columbam: 
Serfientem, ut fiossit nemo Jiocere tibi. 



To a Friend in Distress* 

I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend, 
For when at worst, they say, things always end! 

jid Amicum Paujierem. 

Est male nunc ? Utinam in pejus sors omnia vertatf 
Succedunt summis optima s«pe malis. 



When little more than boy in age, 

I deem'd myself almost a sage ; 
But now seem worthier to be stil'd, 

For ignorance — almost a child. 

Omnia me dum junior essem, scire putabam. 
Quo scio plusy hoc me nimc scio scire viinusi. 



APPENDIX. 223 



Retaliation, 



The works of ancient Bards divine, 

Aulus, thou scorn' St to read; 
And should posterity read tliine, 

It would be strange indeed! 

Lex Talionis, 

Majorum nunquam., Aule, legis monumenta tuorum: 
Mirum esty posteritas si tua scripta iegat. 



Sunset and Sunrise* 

Contemplate, when the sun declines, 
Thy death, with deep reflection ; 

And when again he rising shines, 
Thy day of resurrection. 

De Ortu et Occasu, 

Sole orient e^ tui reditus a morte memento! 
Sis memor Occasusj sole cadente, tui i 



APPENDIX. 

(No. 5.) 



MONTES GLACIALES, 

In oceano Ger7nanico natantes, 

JlLN, qux prodigia, ex oris allata remotis, 

Oras adveniunt pavefacta per sequora nostras ! 

Non equidem priscje sseclum rediisse videtur 

PyrrhsE, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes 

Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora 

Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus, alti 

In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant 

Quid vei'o hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu? 

Splendentes \ ideo, ceu pulchro ex cere vel auro 

Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis, 

Bacca cxrulea, et flammas imitante pyropo. 

Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus 

Parturit omnigenas, quibus sva per omnia sumptu 

Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges ? 

Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos 

Mercatorum oculos : prius et quam Uttora Gangis 

Liquissent, avidis gratissima prxda fuissent. 

Ortos unde putemus ? An illos Vesvius atrox 

Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus iEtna? 

Luce micant propria, Phsbive, per aera purum 

Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent ? 

Phaebi hice micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis 

Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis, 

Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est 

Multa onerata nive, et canis conspersa pruinis. 

Csetera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma fere omnes 

Contristat menses, portenta hacc horrida nobis 

Ilia strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo 

Clivorum fluerent in littora prona soluts 

Sole, nives, propcro tendentes in mare cursu, 

Ilia gelu fixit. Paulatim attoUere sese 

Mirum cxpit opus ; glacieque ab origine rerum 

In glaciem aggesta, sublimes vertice tandem 



APPENDIX. 225 

Aquavit montes, non crescere nescia moles. 
Sic immensa diu stetit, xternumque stetisset 
Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte^ 
Littora ni tandem declinia deseruisset, 
Pondefe victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum 
Antra et saxu gemunt, subito concussa fragore, 
Dum riiit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi, 
Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim 
Insula in yEgzeo fluitasse erratica ponto. 
Sed non ex glacie Delos : neque torpida Delum 
Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. 
Sed vestita herbis erat ilia, omataque nunquam 
Decidua lauro ; et Delum dilexit Apollo. 
At vos, errones horrendi et caligini digni, 
Cimmeria Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra, 
Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri 
Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite cselum 1 
Itel Redite! Timete moras ; ni, leniter austro 
Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas 
Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti I 

ON THE ICE ISLANDS. 
Seen floating in the German Ocean» 

What portents, from what distant region, ride. 
Unseen, till now, in ours, th' astonis'd tide? 
In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves 
Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves. 
But now, descending whence of late they stood, 
Themselves the mountains, seem to rove the flood. 
Dire times were they, fiill-charg'd with human woes. 
And these, scarce less calamitous than those. 
What view we now? More wond'rous still! Behold I 
Like burnish 'd brass they shine, or beaten gold; 
And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, 
And all around the ruby's fiery glow. 
Come they from India, where the burning earth, 
All-bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth ; 
And where the costly gems, that beam around 
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? 
No ; never such a countless, dazzling store, 
Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled-shore. 
Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes, 
Should sooner far have mark'd, and seiz'd the prize. 

VOL. II. G g 



226 APPENDIX. 

Whencie sprang they then ? Ejected have they come 

From VesVius' or from j^Ltna's burning womb I 

Thus shine they, self-illum'd, or but display 

The borrow 'd splendours of a cloudless day ? 

With borrow 'd beams they shine. The gales that breathC; 

Now land-ward, and the current's force beneath, 

Have borne them nearer : and the nearer sight, 

Advantag'd more, contemplates them aright. 

Their lofty summits, crested high, they show, 

With mingled sleet and long-incumbent snow. 

The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, 

Bleak winter weU-nigh saddens all the year. 

Their infant growth began. He bade arise 

Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. 

Oft' as, dissolv'd by transient suns, the snow 

Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below, 

He caught and curdled, with a freezing blast, 

The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 

By slow degrees, uprose the wond'rous pile, 

And long-successive ages roll'd the while ; 

Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stan^ 

Tall, as its rival mountains, on the land. 

Thus stood — and, unremoveable by skill 

Or force of man, had stood the structure still ; 

But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yet 

By pressure of its own enormous weight. 

It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound 

That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, 

Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 

(As if instinct with strong desire to lave) 

Down went the pond'rous mass. So bards of old. 

How Delos swam th' ^Egean deep, have told. 

But not of ice was Delos ; Delos bore 

Herb, fruit, and flow'r. She, crown'd with laurel, wore, 

E'en under wint'ry skies, a summer smile 5 

And Delos was Apollo's fav'rite isle. 

But, horrid wand'rers of the deep, to you 

He deems Cimmerian dai'kness only due: 

Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey, 

But scornful tum'd his glorious eyes away. 

Hence ! seek your home ; nor longer rashly dare 

The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air ; 

Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast. 

In no congenial gulph for ever lost ! 



APPENDIX. 

(No. 6.) 



I make no afiology for the introduction of the follonving Lines, 
though I have never learned who wrote them. Their elegance 
•will sufficiently recommend them tofiersons of classical taste and 
erudition: and 1 shall be hafifiy if the English version that they 
have received from me^ be found not to dishonour them. Af- 
fection for the memory of the worthy man whom they celebrate 
alone /irom/ited me to t/iis endeavour. 

W.COWPER. 



VERSES 

To the Memory of Dr. Liorn. 

Spoken at the Westminster Election next after his Decease. 

VJUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest, 
Whose social converse was itself a feast ; 
O ye of riper years, who recollect 
How once ye lov'd, and eyed him with respect, 
Both in the firmness of his better day, 
Wliile yet he nal'd you with a father's sway, 
And when impair'd by time, and glad to rest, 
Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest, 
He took his annual seat, and mingled here 
His sprightly vein with yours, now drop a tear I 
In morals blameless, as in manners meek. 
He knew no wish, that he might blush to speak. 
But, happy in whatever state below. 
And richer than the rich in being so, 
Obtain 'd the hearts of aU, and such a meed 
At length from one* as made him rich indeed. 
Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here ! 
Go I garnisli merit in a higher sphere, 



* He was u-,her and under-ma-ter of Westminster near fifty years, and retiied fiani Kis oe» 
cupatioB when he «»s near icventv. vMtli a hmdtome pension from the king. 



328 APPENDIX. 

The brows of those, whose more exalted lot 
He could congratulate, but envy'd not ! 
Light lie the turf, good Senior, on thy breast, 
And tranquil, as thy mind was, be thy rest ! 
Tho' living thou had'st more desert than fame, 
And not a stone now chronicles thy name ! 



Abiit senex. Periit senex amabilis, 

Quo non fiiit jucundior. 
Lugete vos setas quibus maturior 

Senem colendum proestitit ; 
Seu quando, viribus valentioribus 

Firmoque fretus pectore, 
Florentiori vos juventute excolens 

Ciira fovebat patria, 
Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude, 

Vultu sed usque blandulo, 
Miscere gaudebat suas facetias 

His annuls leporibus I 
Vixit probis, puraque simplex indole, 

Blandisque comis moribus, 
Bt dives asqua mente, charus omnibus, 

Unius auctus munere. 
Ite, tituli ! Meritis beatioribus 

Aptate laudes debitas I 
Nee invidebat illie, si quibus favens 

Fortuna plus arriserat. 
Placide senex, levi quiescas cespite, 

Esti supei'bum nee vivo tibi 
Decus sit inditum, nee mortuo 

Lapis notatus nomine ? 



/ T 



APPENDIX. 

(No. 7.) 
TRANSLATIONS from the FABLES of GAY. 

Lefius Multis Amicus. 

X^USUS amicitia est uni nisi dedita, cen fit, 

Simplice ni nexus fcedere, lusus amor. 
Incerto genitore puer, non sscpe paternsc 

Tutamen novit, deliciasque domus : 
Quique sibi fides fore multos sperat, amicus 

Mirum est huic misero si ferat uUas opem. 

Comis erat mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus 

Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, lepus ; 
Ille quot in sylvis, et quot spatiantur in agris 

Quadrupedes norat conciliare sibi. 
Et quisque innocuo, invitoque lacessere quenquam 

Labra tenus saltern fidus amicus erat. 
Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit 

Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens, 
Venatorum audit clangores pone sequentum 

Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fiigit. 
Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures, 

Respicit et sentit jam prope adesse necem. 
Utque canes fallat, late circumvagus, illuc 

Unde abiit mira callidate, redit ; 
Viribus et fractis tandem se projicit ultro 

In media miserum semianimemque via. 
Vix ibi stratus equi sonitum pedis audit, et oh spe 

Quamlacta adventum cor agitatnr equi ! 
Dorsum, inquit, mihi, chare, tuum concede, tuoque 

Auxilio nares fallere, vimque canum, 
Me meus, ut nosti, pes prodit — fidus amicus 

Fert quodcunque lubens, ncc grave sentit, onus; 



230 APPENDIX. 

Belle miscelle lepuscule I equus respondet, amara 

Omnia quoe tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi, 
Verum age — sume animos — multi, me pone, bonique 

Adveniunt quorum sis cito salvus ope. 
Proximus armenti dominus bos solicitatus 

Auxilium Iiis verbis se dare posse negat, 
Quando quadrupedum qUot vivunt, nuUus amicum 

Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi, 
Libertate sequus, quam cedat amicus amico, 

Utar, et absque metu ne tibi displiceam ; 
Hinc me mandat amor. Juxta istum messis ascervum 

Me mea, prce cunctis chara, juvenca manet ; 
Et quis non ultro qusecumque negotia linquit, 

Pareat ut dominre, cum vocat ipsa, suae? 
Neu me crudelem dicas — discedo — sed hircus 

(Cujus ope effugias integer) hircus adest. 
Febrem, ait hircus habes : heu sicca ut lamina languent ! 

Utque caput coUo deficiente jacet ! 
Hirsutum mihi tergum ; et forsan Ixserit segrum, 

Vellere eris melius fultus, ovisque venit. 
Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit anhelans 

Sustineo lanae pondera tanta meae ; 
Me nee velocem nee fortem jacto, solentque 

Nos etiam sajvi dilacerare canes. 
Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur 

Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat. 
Remne ego respondet vitulus suscepero tantam, 

Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri? 
Te quern maturi canibus validique relinquunt 

Incolumem potero reddere parvus ego ? 
Prseterea tollens quern illi aversantur, amicis 

Forte parum videar consuluisse meis. 
Ignoscas oro. Fidissiraa dissociantur 

Corda, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum. 
Ecce autem ad calces canis est I te quanta perempt* 

Tristitia est nobis ingruitura ! — ^Vale ! 



Avarus et Plutus. 

Icta fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus 
Ex somno trepidus surgit, opumque memor. 

Lata silenter humi ponit vestigia, quemque 
Respicit ad sonitum respiciensque tremit ; 



APPENDIX. 231 

Angustissima quscque foramina lampade visit, 

Ad vectes, obices, fertque refertque manum. 
Dein reserat crebris junctam compagibus arcain 

Exiiltansque omnes conspicit intus opes. 
Sed tandem furiis ultricibus actus ob ai'tes 

Queis sua res tenliis creverat in cumulum, 
Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora pulsans 

Aurum execratur, perniciemque vocat ; 
O mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset, 

Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum I 
Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis ; et aurum 

Quid contra vitii toi'mina sxva valet ? 
O inimicum aurum ! O homini infestissima pestis 

Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas ? 
Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid honestum est, 

Et prxter nomen nil retinere boni. 
Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit ; 

Aurum nocturnis furibus arma dedit. 
Bella docet foi'tes, timidosque ad pessima ducit 

Foedifragas artes, multiplicesque doles, 
Ncc vitii qvxicquam est quod non inveneris ortum 

Ex malesuada auri sacrilegaque fame. 
Dixit, et ingemuit ; Plutusqiie suum sibi numen 

Ante oculos, ira fervidus ipse stetit. 
Arcum clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis 

Ostendens, tremulum sic deus increpuit. 
Questibushis raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis aures? 

Ista tui similes tristia quisque canit. 
Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe ? Culpa, 

Dum rapis et captas omnia, culpa tua est. 
Mene execrandum censes, quia tam pretiosa 

Criminibus fiunt perniciosa tuis ? 
Virtutis specie, pulchro cen paUio amictus 
Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit. 
Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum 

Et diinim subito vergit ad imperium. 
Hinc, nimium dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam, 

Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax. 
Nutrit avaritiam et fastum, suspendere adunco 

Suadet naso inojjes, et vitium omne docet. 
Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar 

Roris dilapsi ex jethere cuncta beat : 
Tum, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat orbos 
£t viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetatt 



232 APPENDIX. 

Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avams 
Aurum animse pretium qui cupit atque capit? 

Lege pari gladium incuset sicarius atrox 
CsEso homine, et ferrum judicet esse reum. 



Pafiilio et Limax. 

Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit, 
Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur olet. 



In closing this series of Cowper's translations, I mtist not fail 
to express my concern, that I am unable to present to my reader, 
according to my intention, a specimen of the Henriade, as trans- 
lated by the poetical brothers. 

I had been informed that I should find their production in a 
Magazine for the year 1759—1 have indeed found in a Magazine 
of that period a version of the poem, but not by the Cowpers; yet 
their version probably exists, comprised in a periodical publication : 
but my own researches, and those of a few literary friends, kindly 
diligent in inquiry, have hitherto been unabje to discover it. 



APPENDIX. 

(No. 8.) 



During Coivper's visit to Eartham^ he kindly fiointed out to me 
three of his Jiajiers in the last -volume of the Connoisseur. I 
inscribed them with his name at the time^ and imagine that the 
readers of his Life may be gratified in seeirig them iiiserted 
here. I find other numbers of that ivork ascribed to him; but 
the three follonvmg I print as his, on his ow7i exfdicit authority. 
Number 119. Thursday, May 6, 17 5&.— Number 134. ThurS' 
day, August 19, 1756. — A^unber 138. Thursday ) September 
;6, 1756. 



THE CONNOISSEUR. 

(NUMBER 119.) 

Plenus rimarum sum, hue et illuc peifliio. 

Ter. 

Leaky at bottom ; if those chinks you stop. 
In vain — the secret will run o'er at top. 

1 HERE is 110 mark of our confidence taken more kindly by a 
friend, than the entrusting him with a secret ; nor any which he 
is so likely to abuse. Confidants hi general are like crazy fire- 
locks, which are no sooner charged and cocked, than the spring 
gives way, and the report immediately follows. Happy to have 
been thought worthy the confidence of one friend, they are impa- 
tient to manifest their importance to another : till, between them, 
and their friend, and their friend's friend, the whole matter is pre- 
sently known to all our friends round the wrekin. The secret 
catches, as it were by contact, and, like electrical matter, breaks 
forth from every link in the chain, almost at the same instant. 
Thus the whole exchange may be thrown into a buz to-morrow by 
what was whispered in the middle of Marlborough Downs this 
morning, and in a week's time the streets may ring with the in- 
trigue of a woman of fashion^ bellowed out from the foul mouths. 
VOL. II. H h 



334 APPENDIX. 

of the hawkers, though at present it is known to no creature Hy- 
ing but her gallant and her waiting-maid. 

As tlie talent of secrecy is of so great importance to society, 
and the necessary commerce between individuals cannot be se- 
curely carried on without it, that this deplorable weakness should 
be so general is much to be lamented. You may as well pour 
water into a funnel, or a seive, and expect it to be retained there, 
as commit any of your concerns to so slippery a companion. It is 
remarkable, that in those men who have thus lost the faculty of 
retention, the desire of being communicative is always most pre- 
valent where it is least justified. If they are intrusted with a 
matter of no great moment, affairs of more consequence will, per- 
haps, in a few hours, shuffle it entirely out of their thoughts : but if 
any thing be delivered to them with an earnestness, a low voice, 
and the gesture of a man in terror for the consequence of its being 
known ; if the door is bolted, and every precaution taken to pre- 
vent surprise, however they may promise secrecy, and however 
they may intend it, the weight upon their minds will be so extre- 
mely oppressive, that it will certainly put their tongues in motion. 

This breach of trust, so universal amongst us, is perhaps in 
great measure owing to our education. The first lesson our little 
masters and misses are taught is to become blabs and tell-tales : 
they are bribed to divulge the petty intrigues of the family below 
stairs to papa and mama in the parlour ; and a doll of hobby-horse 
is geneiT,lIy the encouragement of a propensity which could 
scarcely be atoned for by a whipping. As soon as children can 
lisp out the little intelligence they have picked up in the hall, or the 
kitchen, they are admired for their wit : if the butler has been 
caught kissing the housekeeper in his pantry, or the footman de- 
tected in romping with the chambermaid, away flies little Tommy 
or Betsy with the news ; the parents are lost in admiration of the 
pretty rogue's understanding, and reward such uncommon inge- 
nuity with a kiss or a sugar-plumb. 

Nor does an inclination to secrecy meet with less encouragement 
at school. The governants at the boarding-school teach miss to be 
a good girl, and tell them every thing she knows : thus, if any- 
young lady is unfortunately discovered eating a green apple in a 
coi-ner ; if she is heard to pronounce a naughty word, or is caught 
picking the letters out of another miss's sampler, away runs the 
chit who is so happy as to get the start of the rest, screams out 
her information as she goes ; and the prudent matron chucks hei? 
under the chin, and tells her that she is a good girl, and every 
body will love her. 

The management of our young gentlemen is equally absurds 



APPENDIX. 23S 

in most of our schools, if a lad is discovered in a scrape, the im- 
peachment of an accomplice, as at the Old-Bailey, is made the 
condition of a pardon, I remember a boy, engaged in robbing an 
orchard, who was unfortunately taken prisoner in an apple-tree, 
and conducted, under the strong guard of the farmer and his dairy- 
maid, to the master's house. Upon his absolute refusal to discover 
his associates, the pedagogue undertook to lash him out of his fide- 
lity ; b\it finding it impossible to scourge the secret out of him, he 
at last gave him up for an obstinate villain, and sent him to his 
father, who told him he was ruined, and was going to disinhei-it 
him for not betraying his school-fellows. 

I must own I am not fond of thus drubbing our youths into trea- 
cher}-; and am much pleased with the request of Ulysses, when 
he went to Troy, who begged of those who were to have the care 
of young Telemachus, ihatthcy would, above all things, teach him 
to be just, sincere, faithful, and to keep a secret. 

Every man's experience must have fuiTiished him with instan- 
ces of confidants who are not to be relied on, and friends who are 
not to be trusted ; but few, perhaps, have thought it a character so 
well worth their attention, as to have marked out the different de- 
grees into which it may be divided, and the different methods by 
Tvhich secrets are communicated, 

Ned Trusty is a tell-tale of a veiy singular kind. Having some 
sense of liis duty, he hesitates a little at the breach of it. If he 
engages never to utter a syllable, he most punctually performs his 
promise ; but then he has the knack of insinuating, by a nod and a 
shrug well-timed, or a seasonable leer, as much as others can con- 
vey in express terms. It is difficult, in short, to determine whe- 
ther he is more to be admired for his resolution in not mentioning, 
or his ingenuity in disclosing a secret. He is also excellent at a 
doubtful phrase, as Hamlet calls it, or ambiguous giving out ; and 
his conversation consists chiefly of such broken inuendoes as — ■ 
" well I know — or I could — and if I would — or, if I list to speak — 
or there be, and if there might," Sec. 

Here he generally stops, and leaves it to his hearers to draw 
proper inferences from these piece-meal premises. ^Vith due en- 
couragement, however, he maybe prevailed on to slip the padlock 
from his lips, and immediately overwhelms you with a torrent of 
secret history, which rushes foilh with more violence for having 
been so long confined. 

Poor Meanv/ell, though he never fails to transgress, is rather to 
be pitied than condemned. To trust him with a secret is to spoil 
his appetite, to break his rest, and to deprive him, for a time, of 
every earthly enjoyment. Like a man who travels with his whole 



236 APPENDIX. 

fortune in his pocket, he is terrified if you approach him, and 
immediately suspects that you come with a felonious intent to rob 
him of his charge. If he ventures abroad, it is to walk in some 
unfrequented place, where he is least in danger of an attack. At 
home he shuts himself up from his family, paces to and fro his 
chamber, and has no relief but from muttering over to himself what 
he longs to publish to the world, and would gladly submit to the of- 
fice of town-cryer, for the liberty of proclaiming it in the market- 
place. At length, however, weary of his burden, and resolved to 
bear it no longer, he consigns it to the Custody of ihe first friend he 
meets, and returns to his wife with a cheerful aspect, and wonder- 
fully altered for the better. 

Careless is, perhaps, equally undesigning, though not equally ex- 
cusable. Intrust him with an affair of the utmost importance, on 
the concealment of which your fortune and happiness depend : he 
hears you with a kind of half attention, whistles a favourite air, 
and accompanies it with the drumming of his fingers upon the 
table. As soon as your narration is ended, or perhaps in the middle 
ot it, he asks your opinion of his sword-knot— damns his taylor for 
having dressed him in a snuff-coloured coat instead of a pompa- 
dour, and leaves you in haste to attend an auction; where, as if 
he meant to dispose of his intelligence to the best bidder, he di- 
vulges It with a voice as loud as an auctioneer's ; and when you tax 
him with having playdd you false, he is heartily soiny for it, but ne- 
ver knew that it was to be a secret. 

To these I might add the character of the open and unreserved, 
who thinks it a breach of friendship to conceal anv thing from his 
intimates; and the impertinent, who having, by dint of observa- 
tion, made himself master of your secret, imagines he may law- 
fully publish the knowledge it cost him so much labour to obtain, 
and considers that privilege as the reward due to his industry. But 
I shall leave these, with many other characters, which my reader's 
own experience may suggest to him, and conclude with prescrib- 
ing, as a short remedy for this evil—that no man may betray the 
council of his friend, let every man keep his own. 



APPENDIX. 23r 

THE CONNOISSEUR. 

(NUMBER 134.) 

Delicta majorum immeritus lues, 
Romane, donee tcmpla refeceiis 
vEdesque labentia Deorum, et 
Fscda nigro simulacra fiimo. 

HOR, 

The tottering tow'r and mould'ring walls repair, 
And fill with decency the house of prayer: 
Qiiick to the needy curate bring relief, 
And deck the parish-church without a brief. 

Mr. village to Mr. TOWN. 
Dear Cousin, • 

The country, at present, no less than the metropolis, abounding 
with politicians of every kind, I begin to despair of picking up any 
intelligence that might possibly be entertaining to your readers. 
HoAvever, I have lately visited some of the most "distant parts of 
the kingdom, with a clergyman of my acquaintance. I shall not 
trouble you with an account of the improvements that have been 
made in the seats we saw, according to the modern taste, but pro- 
ceed to give you some reflections which occurred to us in observing 
several country churches, and the behaviour of their congrega- 
tions. 

The ruinous condition of some of these edifices gave me great 
offence; and I could not help wishing that the honest vicar, instead 
of indulging his genius for improvements, by enclosing his. goose- 
berry bushes A^ithin a Chinese rail, and converting half an acre of 
his glebe-land into a bowling-green, would have applied part of his 
income to the more laudable purpose of sheltering his i)arishioners 
from the weather during their attendance on divine service. It is 
no uncommon thing to see the parsonage-house well thatched, and 
in exceeding good repair, while the church perhaps has scarce any 
other roof than the ivy that grows over it. The noise of owls, bats, 
and magpies makes the principal part of the church music in 
many of these ancient edifices ; and the walls, like a large map, 
seem to be portioned out into capes, seas, and promontories, by the 
various colours by which the damps have stained them. Some- 
times the foundation being too Mcak to support the steeple any 
longer, it has been found expedient to pull down that part of the 



238 APPENDIX. 

building, and to hang the bells under a wooden shed on the gi'ound 
beside it. This is the case in a parish in Norfolk, through which I 
latelv' passed, and Avhere the clerk and the sexton, like the two 
figures of St. Dunstan's, serve the bells iu capacity of clappers, by 
striking them alternately with a hammer. 

In other churches I have observed that nothing unseemly or 
ruinous is to be found, except in the clergyman, and the append- 
ages of his person. The 'squire of the parish, or his ancestors, 
perhaps, to testify their devotion, and leave a lasting monument 
of their magnifience, have adorned the altar-piece with the richest 
crimson velvet, embroidered with vine-leaves and ears of wheat ; 
and have dressed up the pulpit with the same splendour and ex- 
pense ; while the gentleman who fills it is exalted, in the midst of 
all this finery, with a surphce as dirty as a farmer's frock, and a 
periwig that seems to have transferred its faculty of curling to the 
band, which appears in full buckle beneath it. 

But if I was concerned to see several distressed pastors, as well 
as many of our country churches, in a tottering condition, I was 
more offended with the indecency of worship in others. I could 
wish that the clergy would inform their congregations, that there 
is no occasion to scream themselves hoarse in making the respon- 
ses ; that the town-cryer is not the only person qualified to pray 
with due devotion ; and that he who bawls the loudest inay never- 
theless be the wickedest fellow in the parish. The old women, too, 
in the aisle might be told, that their time would be better employed 
in attending to the sermon, than in fumbling over their tattered 
testaments till they have found the text ; by which time the dis- 
course is near drawing to a conclusion: while a word or two of 
instruction might not be thrown away upon the younger part of 
the congregation, to teach them that making posies in summer 
time, and cracking nuts in autumn, is no part of the religious 
ceremony. 

The good old practice of psalm-singing is, indeed, wonderfully, 
improved in many country churches since the days of Sternhold 
and Hopkins ; and there is scarce a parish clerk who has so little 
taste as not to pick his staves out of the new version. This has 
occasioned great complaints in some places, where the clerk has 
been forced to bawl by himself, because the rest of the congrega- 
tion cannot find the psalm at the end of their prayer-books ; while 
others are highly disgusted at the innovation, and stick as obsti-_ 
rately to the old version as to the old style. 

The tunes themselves have also been new set to jiggish mea- 
sures, and the sober drawl which used to accompany the two first 
staves of the hundreth Pt-alm, with the Gloria Patri, is now split 



APPENDIX. 239 

into as many quavers as an Italian air. For this purpose there is 
in every country an itinerant band of vocal musicians, who make 
it their business to go round to all the churches in their turns, and 
after a prelude with the pitch-pipe, astonish the audience with 
hymns set to the new Winchester measure, and anthems of their 
own composing. 

As these new-fashioned psalmodists are necessarily made up of 
young men and maids, we may naturally suppose that there is a 
perfect concord and symphony between them : and, mdeed, I have 
known it happen, that these sweet singers have more than once 
been brought into disgrace by too close an unison between the 
thorough-bass and the treble. 

It is a difficult matter to decide which is looked upon as the 
greatest man m a country church, the parson or his clerk. The 
latter is most certainly held in the higher veneration, where the 
former happens to be only a poor curate, who rides post every 
Sabbath from village to viliage, and mounts and dismounts at the 
church-door. The clerk's office is not only to tag the prayers with 
an amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave ; but he is also the 
universal father to give away the brides, antd the standing god- 
father to all the new-born bantlings. But, in many places, there is 
still a greater man belonging to the church than either the parson 
or the clerk himself. The person I mean is the 'squire, who, like 
the king, may be styled head of the cliurch in his own parish. If 
the benefice be m his own gift, the vicar is his creature, and, of 
consequence, entirely at his devotion : or if the care of the church 
be left to a curate, the Sunday-fees, roast-beef and plumb-pudding, 
and the liberty to shoot in the manor, will bring him as much under 
the 'squire's command as his dogs and hoi-ses. 

For this reason, the bell is often kept tolling, and the peopl© 
waituig in the church-yard, an hour longer than the usual time ; 
nor must the service begin till the 'squire has strutted up the aisle 
and seated himself in the great pew in the chancel. The length 
of the sermon is also measured l)y the will of the 'squire, as for- 
merly by the hour glass ; and 1 know one parish where the preacher 
has always the comijlaisance to conclude his discourse, however 
abruptly, the minute that the 'squire gives the signal by rising up 
after his nap. 

In a village church, the 'squire's lady, or the vicar's wife, are 
perhaps the only females that are stared at for their finery; but 
in the large cities and towns, where the newest fashions are 
brought down weekly by tlie stage-coach, or waggon, all the wives 
and daughters of the most topping tradesmen vie with each other, 
every Siuiday, in tlie elegance of their apparel. I could even trace 



240 APPENDIX. 

their gradations in their dress, according to the opulence, the 
extent, and the distance of the placcf from London. I was at 
church in a populous city in the north, where the mace-bearer 
cleared the way for Mrs. Mayoress, who came sidling after him 
in an enormous fan-lioop, of a pattern which had never been seen 
before in those parts. At another church, in a corporation town, 
I saw several negligees^ with furbellowed aprons, which had 
long disputed the prize of superiority : but these were most woe- 
fully eclipsed by a burgess's daughter, just come from London, 
who appeared in a troUopJie or slammerkin^ with treble ruffles 
to the cuffs, pinked and gymped, and the sides of the petticoat 
drawn up in festoons. In some lesser borough towns, the contest 
I found lay between three or four black and green bibs and aprons. 
At one a grocer's wife attracted our eyes by a new fashion cap, 
called a joan, and at another, they were wholly taken up by a 
mercer's daughter in a nun's hood. 

I need not say any thing of the beliaviour of the congregations in 
these moi'e polite places of i-eligious resort; as the same genteel 
ceremonies are practised there as at the most fashionable churches 
in town. The ladies, immediately on their entrance, breathe a 
pious ejaculation through their fan-sticks, and the beaux very 
gravely address themselves to the haberdashers' bills, glewed upon 
the lining of their hats. This pious duty is no sooner performed than 
the exercise of bowing and curtesying succeeds ; the locking and 
unlocking of the pews drowns the reader's voice at the beginning 
of the service ; and the rustling of silks, added to the whispering 
and tittering of so much good company, renders him totally unin^ 
telligible to the very end of it. 

I am, dear cousin, yours, &c. 



THE CONNOISSEUR. 
(NUMBER 138.) 

Servata semper lege et ratione loquendi; 



Juv. 



Your talk to decency and reason suit, 
Not prate like fools, or gabble like a brute. 



IN the comedy of the Frenchman in London, which we are told 
was acted at Paris with uni\'ersal applause for several niglits toge- 
gether, there is a character of a rough EngUshman, who is repre- 
sented as quite unskilled in the graces of conversation, and his dia»> 



APPENDIX. 241 

logue consists almost entirely of a repetition of the common saluta- 
tion of, How do you do ? how do you do ? Our nation has, indeed, 
been generally supposed to be of a sullen and uncommunicative dis- 
position ; while, en the ether hand, the loquacious French have 
been allowed tc possess the art of conversing beyond all other peo- 
ple. The Englishman requires to be wound up fiequently, and 
stops very soon ; but the Frenchman runs on in a continued ala- 
rum. Yet it must be acknowledged, that as the English consist of 
very different humours, their manner of discourse admits of great 
variety: but the whole French nt\tion converse alike; and there is 
no difference in their address between a marquis and a valet de 
chambre. We may fi'equently see a couple of French barbers ac- 
costing each other in the street, and paying their compliments 
with the same volubility of speech, the same grimace, and action, 
08 two courtiers in the Thuillcries. 

I thall not attempt to lay do^vn any particular rules for conver- 
sation, but rather jjoint out such faults in discourse and behavioui* 
as render the company of half mankind ratlier tedious than amus- 
ing. It is in vain, indeed, to look for conversation Avhere we might 
expect to find it in the greatest perfection, among persons of 
fashion ; there it is almost annihilated by universal card-playing ; 
insomuch, that I have heard it given as a reason, why it is impos- 
sible for our present writers to succeed in the dialogue of genteel 
comedy, that our people of quality scarce ever meet but to game. 
All their discourse turns upon the odd trick, and the four honours, 
and it is no less a maxim with the votaries of whist thrji with 
those of Bacchus, that talking spoils company. 

Every one endeavours to make himself as agreeable to society as 
he can ; but it often happens that those who most aim at shining 
in conversation overshoot their mark. Though a man succeeds, 
he should not (as is frequently the case) engross the whole talk to 
himself, for that destroysthe very essence of conversation, which is 
talking together. We should trj- to keep up convej-sation like a 
ball bandied to and fro from one to another, rather than seize it 
ourselves, and drive it before us like a foot-ball. Wc should like- 
wise be cautious to adapt the matter of our discourse to our com- 
pany, and not to talk Greek before ladies, or of the last new fiirr 
below to a meeting of country justices. 

But nothing throws a moi-e ridiculous air over cur wliole conver- 
sation than certain pecidiarities, easily acquired, but verj^ diffi- 
cultly conquered and discarded. In order to display these absur- 
dities in a truer light, it is my present purpose to enumerate such 
of them as are most commonly to be met with ; and first, to take 
notice of those I;iiffoons in society, tlie attitudinarians and face-ma.- 

VOL. II. I i 



242 APPENDIX. 

kers. These accompany eveiy word with a peculiar grimace or 
gesture : they assent with a shrug, and contradict with a twisting 
,of the neck ; are angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in a caper 
or a minuet step. They may be considered as speaking harle- 
quins; and their rules of eloquence are taken from the posture- 
master. These should be condemned to converse only in dumb 
show with their own person in the looking-glass ; as well as the 
smirkers and smilers, who so prettily set off their faces, together 
with their words by a je-ne-scai-quoi between a grin and a dimple. 
With these we may likewise rank the affected tribe of mimics, 
Avho are constantly taking off the peculiar tone of voice or gesture 
of their acquaintance ; though they are such wretched imitators, 
that (like bad painters) they are frequently forced to write the 
name under the picture before we can discover any likeness. 

Next to these, whose elocution is absorbed in action, and who 
converse chiefly with their arms and legs, we may consider the 
profest speakers. And first, the emphatical ; who squeeze, and 
press, and ram down every syllable with excessive vehemence and 
energy. These orators are remarkable for their distinct elocution 
and force of expression ; they dwsU on the important particles of 
and rAe, and the significant conjunctive and} which- they seem to 
hawk up with much difficulty out of their own throats, and to cram 
them Avith no less pain into the ears of their auditors. 

Tl:cse should be suifered only to syringe (as it were) the ears of 
a d«-';f man, through an hearing trumpet : though, I must confess, 
th ■ s I am equally offended with whisperers or low speakers, who 
seem to fancy all their acquaintance deaf, and come up so close to 
ycu, that they may be said to measure noses with you, and fre- 
quently overcome you with the exhalations of a powerful breath. 
I would have these oracular gentry obliged to talk at a distance 
through a speaking trumpet, or apply their lips to the wails of a 
whispering gallery. The wits, who will not condescend to utter 
uny thing but a bon mot, and the whistlers, or tune-hummers, who 
never articulate at all, may be joined very agreeably together in 
concert ; and to these tinkling cyinbals I would also add the sound- 
ing brass, the bawler, who inquires after your health with the 
bellowing of a town-cryer. 

The tatlers, whose pliable pipes are admirably adapted to the 
." so^^t parts of conversation," and sweetly " pratling out of fashion," 
iriake very pretty music from a beautiful face and a female tongue : 
but from a rough manly voice and coarse features, mei*e non- 
sense is as harsh and dissonant as a jig from an hurdy-gurdy. 
Tlie s-/earers I have spoken of in a former paper ; but the half-, 
swearers, who split, and mince, and fritter their oaths into gad'sn 



APPENDIX. *4^ 

but ad's-m, and demwe ; the Gothic humbuggers, and those 

.vho « nick-name God's creatures,- and call a man a cabbage a 

crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and an unacconntable ....■.., 

should nevei* come into company without an mtei-preter. But I will 

not tire my reader's patience, by pointing out all the pests of con- 

ersation ; nor dwell particularly on the sensibles, who pronounce 

do;r:tic;ily on the most trivial points, and speak m sentences ; 

thewonderers, who are always wondering f -^ «'^f ^^."1 ^^^^^^ 
wondering whether it will rain or no, or wondermg wl^ntl.e moo^^ 

changes ; the phraseologists, who explam a thn.g by aU /.«, or en- 
ter into particulars with this, that, and Vother; and, la ».ly, the 
^lent me'n, who seem afraid of opening their ^^f^^^l^^ 
should catch cold, and literally observe the precept of the gospel, 
by letting their conversation be only yea yea, and nay na>. 

The rational intercourse kept up by conversation, is one of ou 
principal distinctions from brutes. We should therefore endeavom 
\o tu™ this peculiar talent to our advantage, and -ons^d^ J^^ °;; 
gans of speech as the instruments of understandnjg. VV e l^^d '- 
?erv careful not to use them as the weapons of vice, oi tools ot 
foUy, and do our utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous habits, 
Itch tend to lessen the value of such ^l^-^^'^^^^^ ^^'Z: 
five It is, indeed, imagined by some philosophers that even 
b^ds a!^ beasts (though without the power of art.ulatioi.) p - 
fectly understand one another by the sounds they uttei ^^J^^' 
dogs and cats, Sec. have each a particular language to Jem^elv s 
like different nations. Thus it may be supposed, that ^^e mght in 
tales of Italy have as fine an ear for their own native wood-notes 
Sany sie2 or signorafor an Italian air ; thatthe boars of Wes- 
ph2 ;?:ntle as Expressively through the nose ^^^^^^^ 
t High-German ; and that the frogs in tl^^^iy^^l^^f^^^;"""^^^,'^ 
as intelligibly as the natives jabber their Low Dutch. However 
thi may be, we may consider those whose tongues hard y seem to 
be uiX th influence of reason, and do not keep up the in-op.- 
conversation of human creatures, as imitating the '-^^'^f^^l^^ 
fertaL.als. Thus, for instance, the affinity be^-^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
and monkeys, and praters and parrots, is too obvious not to occur 
aton'e: Grunters and growlers may be justly compared to hogs; 
snarler are curs; andL sfntjire l^as.ionate are a sort of wild- 
cats that wiU not bear stroaking, but will pur when they are 
;^ased Complainers are screech-owls ; and -.-elle;-^^^^^^^^ 
repeating the same dull note, are cuckows. Poets, that pi ck 
UP th h ears at their own hideous braying, are no better th.in 
aLs critics in general are venomous serpents, that delight m 
SSs and 30 J of U.cm who have got by heart a few technical 



244 APPENDIX. 

terms, without knowing their meaning, are no other than magpies* 
I myself, who have crowed to the whole town for near three jears 
past, may, perhaps, put my readers in mind of a dunghill cock: 
but as I must acquaint them, that they will hear the last of me 
on this day fortnight, I hope they will then consider me as a swanj 
who is supposed to sing sweetly in his dying moments. 



M'^ 
^IW 



APPENDIX. 



?4i 



MOTTO ON A CLOCK, 

With a Translation by the Editor, 

Qviaj lenta accedit, quam velox przeterit hora ! 
Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil ! 

iSlow comes the hour; its fms.sing speed how great! 
fVaiting to seize it — vigilatitly wait! 




mm 
lili' 



Peace to the Artist -whose ingeiiinus thought 
Devised the Weather-home, that useful toy : 
Fearless of humid air and gathering rains 
Forth steps the Man, an emblem of myself, 
More delicate his timorous mate retires. 



mm 



IS 

TetshJi.l. 










7f gT 

Cc\:per's tame ILnrs. 



CONCLUSION. 



Astanti sat erit si dicam sim tibi curae : 

******* 

Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus 
Nectens aut paphia myrti, aut parnasside lauri 
Fronde comas, at ego secura pace quiescam. 

SIILTONI MANSUS. 

X shall but need to say^ be yet my friend: 
He toOf perhaps, shall bid the marble breathe 
To honour me; and with the graceful wreath^ 
Or of Parnassus., or the Paphian Isle, 
Shall bind my brows— but I shall rest the while, 

COWPER'S TRANSLATION. 



THE 

CONCLUSION. 



1 HOUGH it seems unnecessary to enumerate the many public 
compliments that have been paid, by a variety of writers, to the 
poetical excellence of Cowper, I must not fail to notice a private 
tribute to his merit, which the kindness of a distant friend trans- 
mitted to me while these volumes were in the press. 

In the form of a letter, to an accomplished author of Ireland, it 
comprizes a series of extensive observations on the poetry of my 
departed friend ; observations so full of taste and feeling, that I 
hope the judicious writer will, in a season of leisure, revise, extend, 
and convert them into a separate monument to the memory of the 
poet, whom he is worthy to praise. 

Peing favoured with the liberty of using, in this publication, the 
manuscript I hnve mentioned, I shall select fi'om it a passage re- 
lating' both to Milton and to Cowper, as an introduction to the 
prcposfi) in honour of the two illustrious and congenial poets, witli 
which I have already pi-cmised to close this address to the public. 

After many forcible remarks on the moral spirit of poetry, and 
a quotation from Lowth on its end and efficacy, the animated cri- 
tic proceeds in the following words. 

" The noblest benefits and delights of poetry can be but rarely 
produced, because, all the requisites for producing them so very 
seldom meet. A vivid mind, and happy imitative power, may 
enable a poet to form glowing pictures of virtue, and almost pro- 
duce in himself a short-lived enthusiasm of goodness ; but although 
even these transient and factitious movements of mind may serve 
to produce grand and delightful effusions of poetry, yet when the 
best of these are compared with the poetic productions of a 
genuine lo^■er of virtue, a discerning judgment will scarcely fail to 
mark the difference. A simplicity of conception and exin-ession — 
a conscious, and therefore unaffected dignity — an instinctive ad- 
herence to sober reason, even amid the highest flights — an unifornx 
justness and consistency of thought — a glowing, yet temperate ar- 
dour of feeling — a peculiar felicity, both in the choice and combi- 
;)ation of terms, by which even the plainest words acquire the- 



248 CONCLUSION. 

truest character of eloquence, and which is rarely to be found, ex^ 
cept where a subject is not only intimately known, but cordially 
loved; these, I conceive, are the features peculiar to the real vo- 
tary of virtue, and which must, of course, give to his strains a 
perfection of effect never to be attained by the poet of inferior 
moral endowments. 

I believe it will be readily granted, that all these qualities were 
never more perfectly combined than in the poetry oi Milton ; and 
I think, too, there will be little doubt, that the next to him, in every 
one of these instances, beyond all comparison, is Coivper. The ge- 
nius of the latter did certainly not lead him to emulate the songs of 
the seraphim. But though he pursues a lower walk of poetry than 
his great master, he appears no less the enraptured votaiy of pure 
unmixed goodness. Nay, pei'haps he may, in this one respect, 
possess some peculiar excellences, which may make him seem 
more the bard of Christianity. That divine religion infinitely ex- 
alts, but it also deeply humbles the mind it inspires. It gives ma- 
jesty to the thoughts, but it impi'esses meekness on the manners, 
and diffuses tenderness through the feelings. It combines sensi^ 
bility with fortitude— the lowliness of the child with the magna- 
nimity of the hero. 

The grandest features of the Christian character were never 
more gloriously exemplified than in that spirit which animates the 
whole of Milton's poetry. His own Michael does not impress us 
with the idea of a purer or more awful virtue than that v/hich we 
feel in every portion of his majestic verse; and he no less happily 
indicates the source from which his excellence was derived, by the 
bright beams which he ever and anon reflects upon us from the sa- 
cred scriptures. But the milder graces of the gospel are certainly 
less apparent. What we behold is so awful, it might almost have 
inspired a wish, that a spirit equally pure and heavenly might be 
raised to illustrate, with like felicity, the more attractive and gentler 
influences of our divine religion. 

In Cowper, above any poet that ever lived, would such a wish 
seem to be fulfilled. In his charming effusions, we have the same 
spotless purity— the same elevated devotion— the same vital exer- 
cise of every noble and exalted quality of the mind— the same de- 
votedness to the sacred scriptures, and to the peculiar doctrines of 
the gospel: the difference is, that instead of an almost repressive 
dignity, we have the sweetest familiarity — instead of the majestic^ 
grandeur of the Old Testament, we have the winning graces of 
the New — instead of those thunders by which angels were discom- 
fited, we have, as it were, " the still small voice" of Him who 
>vas meek and lowly of heart. 



CONCLUSION. 24» 

May we not then venture to assert, that from that spirit of devoted 
piety which has rendered both tliese great men liable to the charge 
of religious enthusiasm, but which, in truth, raised tlie minds of 
both to a kind of happy residence, 

" In regions mild, of calm, and serene air, 
" Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot 
" Which men call Earth," 

a peculiar character has been derived to the poetry of them both, 
which distinguishes their compositions from those of almost all the 
world besides? I have already enumerated some of the superior 
advantages of a truly virtuous poet, and presumed to state, that 
these are realized, in an unexampled degree, in Milton and Cow- 
per. That they both owed this moral eminence to their vizild 
sense of religion, will, I conceive, need no demonstration, except 
what will arise to every reader of taste and feeling on examining 
their works. It will here, I think, be seen at once, that that sub- 
limity of conception, tliat delicacy of virtuous feeling, that majes- 
tic independence of mind, that quick relish for all the be luties of 
nature, at once so pure, and so exquisite, which we find ever oc- 
curring in them both, could not have existed in the same unrivalled 
degree, if their devotion had been less intense, and, of course, 
Jheir minds niore dissipated amongst low and distracting objects." 

In printing this brief specimen from the manuscript of a modest 
writer, who is personally unknown to me, I hope I may lead him 
to make, for his own honour, a more extensive use of his pro- 
duction. His eloquent remarks on the congeniality of mind be- 
tween Milton and Cowper, may, possibly, induce some readers to 
favour my intention of rendering Milton a contributor to the posthu- 
mous honours of Cowper, by the following proposal. 

My departed friend having expressed a wish to me that an edi- 
tion of Milton might be formed, in which our respective writings 
concerning him should appear united, I hope to accomplish that 
affectionate desire. If the public favour my idea, the whole pro- 
fits of the book will be applied to the purpose of raising a marble 
Monument in the metropolis, to Cowper, by the sculptor whose 
genius he particularly regarded, my friend Mr. Flaxman. The 
proposed edition is to contain Cowper's admirable translations 
from the Latin and Italian poetry of Milton, and all that is pre- 
served of that unfinished Commentary, which he intended to con- 
tinue and complete as a series of Dissertations on the Paradise 
Lost. - 

VOL. II. K k 



250 CONCLUSION. 

. It is proposed that Cowper's Milton (for so I wish the edition 
to be called) shall consist of three quarto volumes, decorated witli 
Various engravings, at the price of six guineas ; and those whio 
intend to contribute in this manner to a national monument, in 
memory of Cowper, are requested to deposit their subscriptions 
either with Mr. Johnson, bookseller, of St. Paul's, or with Mr. 
Evans, bookseller, of Pali-Mall. 

As many persons may be incliiied to subscribe to Cowper's 
monument, Avithout subscribing to the intended Milton, it is pre- 
sumed such persons will be gratified in being informed, that thei 
two booksellers above-mentioned will receive any smaller sum aS 
a contribution to the monument, and either faithfully devote what- 
ever may be received to that purpose, or return the sum so ad- 
vanced to every subscriber, if the purpose should be relinquished : 
It may, however, be reasonably hoped, that a purpose where the 
feelings of national esteem and love are so perfectly in unison with 
those of private friendship, will be happily accomplished, and that 
many who feel how justly the pre-eminent character of Cowper is 
endeared to our country, will delight in contributing to perpetuate 
liis renown, by the most honourable memorial of public affection. 




finis; 



BOOKS 

Printed by and for T. 8c J. SWORDS, and sold at their Store, 
No. 160 Pearl-Street, New-York. 

1. T ECTURES on Diet and Regimen, being a 

Systematic Inquii\ into the most rational Means of preserving 

Health ?.nd prolonging Lite ; together with Physiological and Chemical 

Explanations, calculated chiefly for the Use of Families, in Order to 

banish the prevailing Abuses and Prejudices inMedicnie. By A. F. M. 

_ Willkh, M. D. 

2. The Domestic EncyclopD2dia, or a Dictionary 

of Facts and useful Knowled^^e; comprehending a concise View of the 
latest Discoveries, Inveniions, and Improvements, chiefly api)licahle to 
rural and domestic Economy : together wicli Descriptions of the most 
interestuig Objects of Na' ure and An ; the History of Men and Animals 
in a State of Heahh or Disease; and practical Hints respecting the Arts 
and Manufactures, both familiar and commercial. Illustrated w.ith nu- 
merous Engravings and Cuts. In five Vols. 8vo. By A. F. M. Willicb, 
M. D. Author of the Lectures on Diet and Regimen, &c. With Addi- 
tions, applicable to the present Situation of the United States. Hy James 
Mease, M. D. and Fellow of the American Philosophical Society. 

^.. Quincy's Lexicon Physic6-]^,Iedicilm improved, 

or a Dictionary of the Terms emplo\ed in Medicine, and in such De- 
partments of Chemistry, Natural l^hilosophy, Literature, and the Acts, 
as are connected therewith. Containing ample Exp'anations of the 
Etymology, Signincation, and Use of those Terms. Fiom the eleventh 
London Edition. , With many Amendments and Additions, expressive 
of Discoveries lately made in Europe and America. 

4. History of the British Expedition to Egypt; 

to which is subjoined, a Sketch of the prcfcnt. State of that Country, 
and its Means of Defence. Illustrated with Maps, and a Portrait of 
Sir Jialfib Abercromby. By Robert Thomas Wilson, Lieutenant-Colonel 
of Cavalry in his Britannic Majesty's Service, and Knight of the Int- 
perial Military Order of Maria Theresa. In two Vols. 8vo. 

5. An Historical Account of the most celebrated 

.Voyages, Travels, and Discoveries, from the Time of Columbus to the 
present Period. By William Mavor, LL. D. In twenty-four Vols. 
12mo. Price 20 Dollars. 

6. The Botanic Garden. A Poem, in two Parts. 

Part I. containing the Economy of Vegetation. Part II. tl:e Loves of 
the Plants. With Philosophical Nolcs. By Erasmus Barxin, M;, D. 

7. Zoonomia; or the Laws of Organic Life. In 

three Parts. By Erasmus Darrein, M. D. F. R. S. Author of the Bo- 
tanic Garden, Phytclogia, &c. Complete in two Vols. 8vo. 

8. Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson, written 

by herself. With some Posthumous Pieces. In two vols. 12iY.<3. 



( 2 ) 

9. A Guide to the Church, in several Discourses. 

To which are added, two Postscripts ; the first, to those Members of 
the Church who occasionally frequent other Places of Public Worship; 
the second, to the Clergy. Addressed to William Wilberforce, Esq. M. P. 
By the Rev. Charles JDaubeny, LL. B. a Presbyter of the Church of 
England. 

10. First Lines of the Practice of Physic. By Wil- 
liam Cullen, M. D. late Professor of the Praclict- of Physic in the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh, he. With Practical and Explanatory Notes, by 
yohn Rotheram, M. D. In two Vols. Svo. 

11. A Treatise of the Materia Medica. By WiU 

Ham Cullen, M. D. &c. In two Volumes, 8vo. 

12. The Adventures of Telemachus, the Son of 

Ulysses. From the French of Salignac De la Mothe-Ptneton, Arch- 
Bishop of Cantbray. By the late yobn Havkesnuorth, LL. D. Corrected 
and revised by G. Gregory, D. D. Joint Evening Preacher at the Found- 
ling Hospital, and Anchor of Essays, Mistorlcai and ?.loi:tl, &c. With 
a Life of the Author, and a Complete Index, Historical and Geogra- 
phical. In two Vols. Svo. 

13. The Works of Virgil, translated into English 

Prose, as near the Original as the ditierent Idioms of the Latin and 
English Languages will allow. With the Latin Text and Order of 
Construction on the same Page; and Critical, Historical, Geographical, 
and Classical Notes in English, from the best Commentators, both An- 
cient and Modern. Beside a very great Number of Notes entirely 
new. In two Vols. Svo. First American Edition, carefully revised 
and corrected by Malcolm Campbell, A.M. Teacher of Languages. 

14. Cicero's select Orations, translated into Eng- 
lish; with the original Latin, from the best Editions, in the opposite 
Page; and Notes, Historical, Critical, and Explanatory. Designed for 
fhe Use of Schools, as well as private Gentlemen. By William Duncan^ 
Professor of Pliilosophy in the University of Aberdeen. Carefully re- 
vised and corrected by Malcolm Campbell, A. M. Teacher of Languages. 

15. Dissertations on the Prophecies, which have 

remarkably been fulfilled, and at this Time are fulfilling in the World. By 
Thomas Newton, D.D. late Lord Bishop of Bristol. In two Vols. Svo. 

16. Discourses on several Subjects. By Samuel 

Seabury, D. D. Bishop of Connecticut and Rhode-Island. In three Vols 
Svo. 

17. The Posthumous Works o{Ann Eliza Bleecker, 

in Prose and Verse. To which is added, a Collection of Essays, Prose 
and Poetical. By Mat-garetta V. Faugaes. 

18. A Treatise of Practical Surveying; which is 

demonstrated from its first Principles. Wherein every Thing that is 
useful and curious in that Art is fully considered and explained : parti- 
cularly three new and very concise Methods of determining the Areas 
of right-lined Figures arithmetically, or by calculation, as well as the 
Geometrical ones here*^ofcre treated of. The whole illustrated with 
Copper-plates. By lioiert Gibson, Teacher of Mathematics. With 
Alterations and Amendments, adapted to the Use of American Sus^ 

p - 6 69 



s^^ 



J> ^-K 









.-1.^, 






^7 ^ <, . * ^ 

,-0' 









>• '^ ^ , X '^ -6 <' '^ / 

. ^ ' « ^ -^^ -> e ° "^ '^ « '-^ 






-^ °. *.. ^o' ^v^ % »,, ^- <.o 






oc 




" / %. , . . 

Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 

Preservationlechnologies 

^ A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
"" (724)779-2111 



.^^ '^. 



^ ^ 



^ - n'V 



V' 



' <>. V' 



,0 









V. " ' \'^ 



.V' 



%.'*«, A-\<.^' 



x;. 






'^\S' ,^' 



^ , -v. , ^^ 



>.r 

x^'% 






o .0- 



.0 0^ 



>" .-.'<- 









^'^ 



O 0' 



:^ 






A v ■ . - 






"^>. v^' 



■^. 





N ■ 


x*"- 
v<' 






" » 1 


w ' 


\- 


.^^^■ 








% 


.^"^ 



.0^. -"'Jo 'c- 



^s<i^ 



A^'" "^^. 



-^o^ 

o-^ -/O. 






-0^ 



'S^, ' 



.'^^ 



"^^ v-^ 



% .^^' 

c,^'^ 



^^•■.^>ev^'-, 



-^.sV^^ 



-^^ 



